Faithful Compass Verse 2: One Fixed Point in a Changing Age
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Sequel to "Back in the Day". It's been two years since Sherlock finally gave up the drugs and started helping (annoying) the police while solving crimes. Both he and John are starting to establish themselves in their chosen careers, the problem is that they seem to be heading in entirely different directions.
1. Homecoming

Thank you so much to Eowyn and lutz-chan for their betaing skills and feedback :)

Author's Note: If you haven't read the epilogue chapter on Back of the Day (the one with the texts) it might be an idea to pop and have a quick read as I will be using them in this fic. There is also a note about John's training at the end of the fic for anyone who'd interested.

Chapter Summary: John returns home to get certified by the medical board.

* * *

Homecoming

It was beyond weird to think there had once been a time he had been excited by flying in an aeroplane; that two years ago he had stared at the other passengers, been fascinated by the weird stereo looking buttons on the side of the seat that he still didn't know how to work and had, for a brief hour, looked forward to a meal on-board a plane.

Almost bored with the idea now, John shifted in his seat, closing his eyes to deter people from trying to speak to him. He was required to keep the uniform on until he reported in and was officially signed off on his two week leave while the medical council assessed and accepted him as a fully qualified doctor. Unfortunately though, the uniform seemed to prompt people to wander over and ask him questions.

As if every bloody soldier was stationed in Iraq or Afghanistan. It was awkward trying to explain that as a trainee doctor he was stationed in places where he could focus on completing his practical training and take part in training exercises or excruciatingly long guard duties outside consulates.

The plane had almost finished boarding when the seat next to him jiggled a little.

"Does that ever work?" Sherlock asked, the sound of his voice indicating that he was peering around the plane.

John let loose an obviously fake snore in reply, whistling out his breath the way cartoon characters did, and then tried not to smile when he heard Sherlock turn and probably glare.

"You were meant to meet me at the airport," John scolded softly, not moving from the vaguely comfortable position he'd found.

"You didn't wait," Sherlock replied with a derisive sniff.

"Heathrow, Sherlock, not Koln Bonn airport," John turned his head towards Sherlock and opened his eyes.

"Ah," Sherlock settled back, "You didn't specify," he added, as if John should have assumed Sherlock would fly all the way to Germany just to return with John…though in retrospect perhaps John should have realised that was a necessary distinction.

Smiling at the thought, John studied Sherlock in the dim lights as evening drew close. His hair seemed even more wild and un-kept than usual, though John could admit that was probably due to him being used to army regulation cuts. In the years John had been training Sherlock had lost that utterly gaunt look he'd had when he'd returned from the clinic and his entire look was much healthier. Still skinny as a whippet though, John thought with a sigh.

He was wearing the coat. No matter how many times John saw him with it, the sight still made him smile. Sherlock had recently started turning the collar up and seemed to have a different scarf every time John saw him. He'd gone without today which meant John had a better glimpse of-

Sighing in disapproval, John reached out and nudged down the collar, examining the new scar just under Sherlock's ear. "Knife?" he asked, keeping his tone to a scolding rebuke.

Sherlock tilted his gaze to John. "The serrations," he decided after a moment, "That's how you could tell."

"Four inch blade," John added, trying not to grin at the now familiar game.

Sherlock settled back, pulling his neck out from John's fingers, brow furrowed as he tried to guess how John had worked that out. "Similar wound?" he asked.

John pulled a face. "I have seen one before," he said, thinking of his months spent at Plymouth and the victims of a bar fight he'd once had to assist in healing. "But no, that's not what I thought of first."

Sherlock looked as if he was on the cusp of a sulk, "It's in a frustrating place to attempt to examine," he declared, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

John smiled politely at an air-stewardess as she walked by, nodding at her as he leaned forward to buckle Sherlock in, and then shaking his head in slight disbelief when Sherlock made no move to stop him or take over the process. "You are getting so lazy," John complained, sitting back once everything was fastened in place. Then promptly rolled his eyes when Sherlock attempted to measure the wound with his fingers and held his fingers up to estimate the length of it, shifting a little to study and think it through.

John poked Sherlock in the shoulder and waited when Sherlock hissed from the bruise.

"Ah," Sherlock sat back, suddenly seeming delighted that the universe had returned to order, "You could guess from the depth, length and the fact that my shoulder blocked a clean swipe."

That and Mycroft had texted John three weeks ago to inform him of Sherlock's latest mishap. "Yeah," John nodded and looked out the window, "That was it."

There was a dull thump as Sherlock angrily settled back in his seat having suddenly realised how John had known about the knife. "He's getting fat," Sherlock announced petulantly, "Moons will orbit him soon."

"Maybe it's genetic," John watched the world outside start to fade as darkness drew in. "Maybe I'll return in a few years and find you've doubled in size."

John received a sharp pinch on his leg and sniggered as Sherlock trailed his hand up John's thigh and twisted his fingers with John's on the arm rest. Smiling when Sherlock squeezed slightly, John looked back over at his partner with a slight yawn.

"Missed you," John said softly. "I kept expecting you to turn up all of a sudden. Your German is good enough to fool most."

"I am a poor student at the regional accent," Sherlock dismissed. "And there was a case."

"Yeah?" John turned to Sherlock sleepily, "Mycroft said it involved the zoo in some way."

"Mycroft spoils everything," Sherlock groused.

"Mm," John agreed shifting until his head was on Sherlock's shoulder. "He said you broke into the zoo and he had to negotiate your release."

"It was hardly an epic deliberation," Sherlock muttered, moving so his cheek lay on John's head.

"Were lions and tigers and bears involved?"

Under him, John could feel Sherlock stiffen slightly, "A song?" he asked sounding as if he was frowning.

"Wizard of Oz," John agreed, breathing in the smell of him.

"Ah," Sherlock settled back down again, "Useless twaddle," he declared after a moment, "deleted the story, though the significance in current culture may prove relevant."

"Okay," John agreed, sliding his hand across Sherlock's stomach before burying his hand the coat's pocket to keep himself warm. "So where are we going when we get into Heathrow?"

"Mother's," Sherlock replied woodenly.

"What did you do?"

"The idiot upset my collection," Sherlock sneered, "I was forced to explain-"

"About the thirty seven different types of poison?" John asked wincing. "I assume Chuck didn't respond well?"

"As well as someone who uses a verb as their first name can be expected to respond," Sherlock's arm had crept around John at some point and was pulling him in close. "You haven't slept in almost a full day," he added reproachfully.

"Couldn't sleep," John snuggled in closer. "Two whole weeks of leave," he grinned. "No more wilderness training or team building exercises on my days off."

"Yes, now you will merely be expected to do it on a day to day basis," Sherlock had started to stroke soothing patterns on John's back. "As well as tend to the sick and wounded."

"And then I'll get proper time off," John added, lifting his head a little to kiss at the shiny new scar. "A month, maybe even two. I could even pick you up from the zoo next time-"

"Shut up," Sherlock smiled into his hair, John had felt the motion enough times to identify the expression, "And who's to say you wouldn't be in the enclosure with me next time?"

"I'm the voice of reason," John complained.

"Ah yes, the voice of reason that told me to get into this profession because 'it could be dangerous'!" Sherlock pointed out.

"G'way," John pushed into Sherlock a little further, "I'm tired."

"You're losing the discussion."

"Yeah, that too."

* * *

John could admit that he was bloody useless when they walked through Heathrow airport. Sherlock simply pointed him in the correct direction with a touch to his back or side and John shrugged and let him.

"You have to report in?"

John nodded as he settled onto the train seat in the empty carriage. "Mm," he said sliding down a little.

"Mycroft could fiddle it," Sherlock was rotating his phone in his hand thoughtfully.

"Didn't hear that," John scolded, glaring at him.

"Your insistence on following the rules is annoying," Sherlock said as he perched on the opposite seat.

"It's hardly out of the way," John protested, "I'll meet you at your mum's if it's-"

"John, I just flew to Germany to sit with you on the plane. I am merely pointing out that while air travel was unavoidable, this is not."

There was one of those strange thrums at the thought that Sherlock had done all of that, just for him. Softening, John lifted his feet onto the seat next to Sherlock and tapped at his thigh with a booted foot.

"Do not mess up my coat," was the terse reply.

That made John erupt into laughter and he obediently moved his shoes away. "I swear you treat that thing like a child."

"It's more useful than one," Sherlock shoved his phone in his pocket and sat back, blinking a little and clearly restraining a yawn.

Grateful that there was no-one else in the carriage as the train lurched forward and noisily started clanking along the tracks, John reached over and picked up Sherlock's hand, pressing a long, deep kiss to the back of it, breathing him in.

"Still in uniform," Sherlock reminded him quietly.

John nodded and sat back; climbing onto Sherlock's lap in full view of the security cameras on the train probably wouldn't be classed as befitting behaviour for a member of the RAMC, especially while still in uniform, "When did you last sleep?"

Sherlock made a dismissive move, staring out of the window at the darkened towns and scattered lights blurred by the drizzling rain. "Get some rest," he said finally. "We have an hour to kill."

Like hell. Drawing in a deep breath John stretched a little, grinning when he spotted Sherlock rolling his eyes with the slightest smile on his face.

"Any plans then for the next two weeks? Any more cases?" John asked as Sherlock lifted his elbow to rest on the bottom edge of the window and rubbed at his mouth.

"No," Sherlock's nose wrinkled in distaste, "Lestrade is up for promotion and has suddenly decided he wants to do everything by the book after the zoo escapade." The look on Sherlock's face suggested he couldn't quite applaud the logic.

"And no other officers will take you on?" John asked, frowning.

"Not while Lestrade refuses." Sherlock dropped his hand from his mouth, "I will simply have to be content with shagging you for two weeks solid."

"You martyr," John moved his foot dangerously close to the coat and earned a filthy look in the process. "And the private cases?"

"Please find our lost pet," Sherlock mocked, twisting his face with some distaste, "Please find out if my significant other is fucking the help." Sherlock glared at the flickering light above. "People are so desperately dull at times."

"You sound personally offended," John pulled his feet off of the seat and sat forward, curious.

"People should either be together or leave. Affairs are so insulting," Sherlock's eyes fixed on John suddenly, "We manage."

"Yeah," John nodded, "I suppose we do."

* * *

Sherlock waited while John reported in and was officially signed off for leave. A taxi ride back and they were at Violet's, sneaking up the stairs as they had at one new year's eve when both had accepted Andy's challenge to drink a fishbowl each.

Though they were much quieter this time.

Inside Sherlock's room, John just staggered to the bed and collapsed on it, groaning in relief. Seconds later Sherlock flopped on top of him, squashing John against the pillow.

"Git," John shifted a bit to avoid being smothered. Sherlock just made an agreeable noise and nuzzled his neck.

"Missed you," Sherlock whispered as he pressed a long kiss to his shoulder and pushed up onto his arms, allowing John to roll over onto his back so he could look up at Sherlock. Thoughtfully, John dragged his fingers through Sherlock's curls, his little finger skimming the scar.

"You should be more careful," John said dropping his hand.

Ignoring him, Sherlock leaned down, hand swiping under John's collar and t-shirt, tugging on the chain underneath that held the bullet to pull John up for a kiss.

"Not a leash," John reminded him, grinning.

"That's exactly what it is," Sherlock's lips left John's mouth and trailed down his chin. "Doesn't seem to bloody work though," he added petulantly.

"Came back didn't I?" John asked, watching Sherlock's head of hair move further and further down as Sherlock undid his buttons.

"I fetched you back," Sherlock corrected.

John stared down and then sighed and flipped them.

It was the best thing about the army; combat training that allowed him to turn the tables on Sherlock every so often. It wasn't a frequent enough occurrence that Sherlock had stopped giving him a startled look when he found himself flat on his back and John braced on top of him.

"Cheating," Sherlock scoffed.

"So?" John started to undo Sherlock's trouser buttons, "You love cheaters," he added with a wink.

"I love you," Sherlock clarified frankly, "Only you."

Freeing Sherlock's cock, John shifted down. "Can't imagine why," he said with a cheeky grin and felt the vibrations of Sherlock's laughter as he swallowed him down.

* * *

Exhausted, John shifted closer into Sherlock as they lay naked and tangled under the covers. Sherlock was already dead to the world and John sighed, a slight twinge of guilt rearing its head.

It had become obvious after the first few months that Sherlock would struggle with sleep. If he continued on and on until exhaustion he would just crash wherever he could and sleep for almost a full day. But, unless he could get his brain to switch off, Sherlock struggled to just close his eyes and drift off when John wasn't there. Even when John was around it could still be a battle, but, according to Violet, Mycroft and Andy (bless him), Sherlock could usually manage a few hours more when in bed with John.

And the eating… thankfully Violet nagged Sherlock about eating enough that Sherlock tended to manage some form of a routine. But he seemed rather dense at understanding the typical hunger pangs that most suffered from. Sherlock would almost be running on empty before he thought to feed himself.

Suddenly Sherlock moved his hand and with deadly accuracy poked the three bruises on John's leg where he'd slipped during an exercise and then at the massive one by his ribs.

"Do not mother me," Sherlock huffed into his hair.

"Don't fake being asleep then," John replied against his shoulder.

"Did you forget about the recoil?" Sherlock asked, tracing the outline of the bruise.

"Go to sleep."

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered, sounding half way there. "God help us all when you start using a gun in a real situation."

John nipped gently at the skin underneath him and shifted, his mind slowly dimming with a sort of purring pleasure as he drifted off.

* * *

When John woke the following morning he was on his own; Sherlock had clearly rolled out early and gone to hunt down something or someone, so John rummaged around in the drawers.

There was a moment where he had a pause, realising just how much of his stuff now lived in this room and followed Sherlock wherever he went in case John was given an unexpected leave, but he shrugged it away and pulled out what he wanted.

It was early in the morning, the house was silent as he let himself out and went to jog around the park. The routine was calming, allowing him time to gather his thoughts and almost disengage his brain from what he was doing.

As it turned out he was digging in his pocket for his key to the front door when Sherlock walked up the steps behind him.

"How on earth do you do that?" Sherlock asked, turning up his coat against the morning wind.

"What, run?" John grinned at him as he slid the key in, aware that he was red faced and his hair was sticking up wildly, "You run all the time!"

"To somewhere," Sherlock looked down the road. "I do not circle a park like a hamster on a wheel."

"No, not when you have zoo enclosures to be breaking into."

The sound of pure frustration made John laugh as he opened the door, "You coming in for breakfast or is there a trough somewhere-"

Sherlock flipped him the finger as he walked in and past John. "You are not amusing," he scolded as he strutted through the hall.

Snorting as Sherlock busied himself to start sulking, John turned to close the door and then sighed as a familiar car pulled up and waited, holding the door open while Sherlock glanced over, face twisting as he spotted the car and stormed upstairs.

"Shower," Sherlock demanded as he climbed.

"Does that mean you've upgraded from being sprayed by a hose?" John called after him then stepped back as Mycroft walked through the door.

Sherlock was right, Mycroft had piled on a few pounds from his latest promotion and he had some shadows under his eyes. But his back was utterly straight and there was a smug, self-satisfied smile lingering on his face.

What Mycroft saw when he gazed over John he had no idea, but Mycroft nodded to himself and the smile turned a little less smug and a little more pleased. "John," he said as he passed.

John swung the door shut, "Mycroft," he said with a nod.

"John!" Sherlock's summons echoed from upstairs. "Do not fraternise with the enemy!"

The kitchen door opened and Violet frowned at the tail end of her youngest son's remark. "Sherlock," she called, her tone scolding.

A petulant silence was all that followed.

Violet smiled at him and held out her hands to him. "Welcome home," she said softly, smiling warmly.

John grinned.

* * *

**Note:**

Typically those training to be doctors for the army are stationed at a hospital and in the breaks will go on group training exercises (climbing things and that sort of active stuff!). As John is in a slightly different situation he has been travelling to RAMC hospitals to train with the doctors there and has been taking part in training exercises as well. I haven't sent him off to a real combative area yet because it seems as if the priority is getting doctors trained, and then putting them through officer training and being medics rather than doing both at the same time.

**Next Chapter: **Doctor Watson - John receives his medical licence while Sherlock is forced to reveal his latest bad habit; smoking.


	2. Doctor Watson

Doctor Watson

Summary: John receives his licence while Sherlock is forced to reveal his latest bad habit; smoking.

* * *

In Sherlock's opinion being curled up in-between clean, fresh sheets with his nose buried in soft hair was possibly the most relaxing thing there was in life. The warm, toned body under his arm was a familiar comfort, lifting with each steady breath John took.

Still thick with sleep, Sherlock nuzzled into his neck, breathing in the smell of John. There was a minute change again, antiseptic and polish that made Sherlock curl closer, desperate to trace where these things had come from.

There was a whiff of smoke on the duvet.

His eyes snapped open.

Slowly, Sherlock pulled away from John; retrieving his arm from under John's body was difficult but he had perfected the art years ago. Sitting up he pulled his t-shirt to his nose, frowned at the smell then stripped the t-shirt off, throwing it into the corner.

Standing, he wandered over to his clothes from the other day, sniffing carefully. His coat held the faintest traces but there was no way that was going in the wash and the only decent dry-cleaner was currently dealing with marital problems. A close study of his trousers revealed the faintest traces of ash.

And of course, the packet of cigarettes.

"Why are you up?" John mumbled from the bed causing Sherlock to turn a little in case John actually opened his eyes and sat up (though it seemed unlikely). "Come back to bed."

"You are becoming very high maintenance," Sherlock scolded as he slipped the packet under the bed before standing.

"You hardly see me," John sounded as if he were grinning. "God knows what you would do with someone who was actually high maintenance."

"I had to go all the way to Germany to fetch you," Sherlock complained. "And I have spent the past few days entertaining you," he added, slinking back to his side of the bed.

"Yes, I'm sure the past few days have been a deep hardship," John burrowed his head into the pillow. "All that shagging; I must be the worst boyfriend ever."

Sherlock was relatively sure that John just used the term to annoy him. "Partner," he corrected, lifting the covers and sliding back against John. "One of these days I will use aversion therapy to teach you the correct terminology to use."

"Yes, boyfriend."

The only possible response was to flick at John's shoulder, then frown at the scars still visible on his arm. Disliking the sight, Sherlock pressed a kiss to them as if the thousandth attempt might erase them from John's arm forever.

They were his scars as much as John's. His reminder. John's other hand rose and briefly stroked Sherlock's hair.

"Any plans today?" he asked sleepily.

"Some," Sherlock pressed his kisses up John's shoulder and then along to his neck.

"And after the morning ritual?" John asked, turning with a grin. Sherlock could feel the vibrations of laughter in John's throat as he kept his lips attached and shuffled around John's movements.

After? Sherlock didn't particularly care for after. After John climbed out of bed and got dressed (pity), after they left the house and John refused to engage in sex at slightly public places like the park or on dull shopping trips. After John went.

No. After was not something to dwell upon.

* * *

_17__th__ February 2005_

"_Where the hell have you been?" Lestrade asked as he stood outside the police lines, eyes dark with fatigue from both the new infant and the current murder investigation. "I called you days ago about this."_

"_Away," Sherlock replied tersely, the image of John's pale face a few days ago after he had finally left the hospital etched into his mind forever. "Did you struggle without me?" he asked, more curious than scathing._

_Thankfully Lestrade heard the difference, "You bugged me for ages about this. Is this a part time thing for you?" he asked with a touch more venom than Sherlock would ordinarily expect, as the DC eyed up Sherlock's clothes._

"_My partner had some trouble," Sherlock peered past Lestrade. "Two murders?" he asked suddenly intrigued. _

_Serial killer? No…Sherlock looked around at what he could see and felt himself deflate slightly. Just angry obsession._

_Disappointing._

"_Partner?" Lestrade shook his head," I can't be dealing with two of you."_

"_He's studying in an army hospital," Sherlock peered past him at the DI in charge, barely aware that his mouth was moving. "Oh, Richards. He hates me."_

_When he glanced at Lestrade the man seemed to have softened slightly. "I remember, the lad that came in to pay your fine the first time we met."_

"_John," Sherlock confirmed. "When will Richards leave?"_

_Lestrade glanced back, "After the press have gone," he said frankly, his voice betraying his distaste for his superior. "He'll hang around for a little while in case there are any strays. We have a while."_

_Sherlock stepped back into the shadows, leaning against the wall of the building. "Why are you out here?"_

"_Tired," Lestrade dug into his pocket. "I'm not very good at keeping my mouth shut when I'm tired." He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and popped one out, almost jumping it to his mouth. Then he looked over at Sherlock, "Not gonna bother you is it?"_

_Sherlock shook his head absently._

"_So," Lestrade pushed the packet back into his coat pocket. "How long have you and John been together?"_

_Sherlock glanced around the corner. Detective Inspector Richards was preening to a woman in a suit with a much too short skirt. He could see the tops of her stockings._

_Small talk appeared to be the lesser of two evils._

"_Years," he said vaguely, not entirely sure if he was allowed to include the 'friends who had sex' months. "I've known him since he was eighteen."_

"_Well fuck me," Lestrade muttered. "Good on you."_

"_I had very little to do with it," Sherlock took a deep breath, tasting the smoke. "He did most of the work."_

_Lestrade didn't look surprised by that revelation. "He seemed like a good lad."_

_Sherlock looked away again._

"_You don't like talking about it?"_

"_I dislike thinking about it," Sherlock snapped. "He's…not here."_

_Strangely Lestrade seemed to understand. "Want to talk about what a cock Richards is?"_

_Despite himself, Sherlock felt a smile threaten._

* * *

Sherlock despised the tube, but the sudden summer storm had left them with little option. Irritatingly, everyone else seemed to have a similar idea and what would have been a quiet walk home with John became an epic battle through idiotic tourists who filmed their way through the tunnels and locals who would probably skin their own grandmother to avoid waiting an extra two minutes for the next train.

Cramped into the carriage, Sherlock held onto the bar while John held onto him.

"You could reach," Sherlock complained as John was pushed against him when the tube stopped.

"You're easier," John shrugged. "Besides, I'm laying claim to you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but deliberately rested his chin on John's head, craning his neck a little to manage it.

"Wanker," John flicked at him as the tube started again.

There would be a time when Sherlock could just slip into taxis again. This lack of funds issue was highly annoying.

The tube came to the next stop and this time, a woman in heels that were far too high for public transport staggered and then slipped creating a domino effect around her and shoving John into Sherlock.

To John's credit he shifted his feet quickly, limiting the sudden yank on Sherlock's arm as he tried to keep them both from tumbling to the floor. Trying to right himself, John grabbed at Sherlock's shirt and twisted a little.

And his hand hit the cigarettes in the bottom of the inside pocket of Sherlock's coat.

John blinked at him in sheer confusion, his hand groping the lining now.

"Are you-"

"Next stop," Sherlock cut across him hastily, unwilling to endure the hissing fit on the tube.

Strangely John didn't seem angry, just puzzled.

* * *

_20__th__ March 2005_

"_I'm sorry," Lestrade's voice called out. "Sherlock?"_

_Pausing, Sherlock turned to him, glaring at the building behind. "How can you not be angry?" he demanded. "He took credit for everything-"_

"_I know," Lestrade stepped towards him. "I'm as pissed as you are," he added firmly. _

_Sherlock whirled, kicking out at a bottle on the side of the street. "All that effort," he shook his head. "We'd have solved it far earlier if he had just bloody listened."_

"_You got bloody lucky in some of your guesses-"_

"_I do not guess," Sherlock sneered for what felt like the hundredth time. He was sure it was close to that now. "How many times must I tell you, I actually look at things."_

_Lestrade still seemed somewhat reluctant but nodded all the same. "Come on," he said suddenly "Want a smoke?"_

"_I…" Sherlock looked away and then back as Lestrade started to walk towards the cars. "What are you doing?"_

"_Having a fag on Richards' car."_

"_I'm sure he'll be pleased about that," Sherlock said, trailing after him nonetheless._

"_Funny thing, no matter where and when he parks his car, security cameras never seem to pick it up." _

"_He is universally disliked," Sherlock watched Lestrade sit himself on the bonnet of the rather expensive car._

"_Only by those he thinks worthless," Lestrade lit up, "So, yeah."_

_It was far too good an opportunity to turn down. Sitting down next to him Sherlock reached for the packet._

"_You don't smoke?" Lestrade asked, passing him the lighter too. _

"_On occasion." Before he'd gotten clean. "That surprises you."_

"_With what you used to do I figured you were a smoker as well," Lestrade blew out smoke, clearly enjoying the act. _

"_One too many vices," Sherlock inhaled and closed his eyes, disappointed when there seemed to be no effect. _

"_You know it will be hard to ever credit you," Lestrade said after a few puffs. "To use evidence and testimonies from you, to admit your involvement. All of that could make things difficult to get a conviction."_

"_Because of the drugs?" Sherlock asked frankly._

"_I've seen your file," Lestrade sounded mildly scolding which was amusing. "There's a lot a lawyer could use to discredit you."_

_Solution: erase files._

"_Who else has looked?"_

_Lestrade shrugged. "Hastings, Richards and Benton."_

_All DI's. All aging. In a few years it wouldn't be a problem. _

"_Despite that," Sherlock took a deep drag, finally starting to feel himself relax. "If courts ran the way all police wish they did, would you keep asking me to help?"_

_Lestrade seemed to mull it over, "But the courts are like that. Every day lawyers find loopholes, ways of discrediting valid evidence. And that's the way it works, otherwise we would have far too much power." _

"_What if I said I didn't want credit."_

"_You're an egotistical bastard," Lestrade stared ahead. "You want credit."_

"_You'll call," Sherlock decided, flicking the cigarette into the night. "You're an idealist. You want to catch the bad guys."_

_Lestrade said nothing._

* * *

"Sherlock," John hesitated as they closed the door to their room. "Do you have tampons in your pocket?"

What?

Sherlock reached under the coat and felt at the lining. The loose cigarettes were bundled together and…ah, he could probably see why John had looked utterly confused.

Unfortunately, despite every strange thing he could get away with, having tampons in his pocket was not one of them.

"No." Sherlock reached in with a long breath and retrieved the cigarettes, holding them in his palm for John to see.

John stared at his palm. "You're smoking?" he asked in a far too calm voice.

"Work," Sherlock excused.

John snapped his head up, "What? How…Sherlock…did all the other voluntary detectives go out for a smoke too?" he asked sarcastically.

Voluntary detective, that was such a stupid title. "I do occasionally have to deal with police officers, witnesses and such. A great majority of them smoke." Then something occurred to him. "You've smoked," he said angrily, folding his arms menacingly. "I've watched you smoke two at the same time."

"I was drunk."

"Drinking and smoking," Sherlock announced, secretly delighted he'd found a way out of this, "I have never mixed the two."

"You really want to get into a discussion about what addictive substances you've mixed together?" John asked, hands on hips.

Probably not.

"I have already given up addictive substances for you," Sherlock changed tact, tilting his head. "You merely reduced yours."

"Are you comparing alcohol to cocaine?" John asked, chin firming.

Yes? No?

"I still gave it up," Sherlock clung to the fact stubbornly. "Cocaine, heroin-"

"Technically so did I," John beamed at him proudly. "Try again."

Sherlock licked at his lips. "It's a socially acceptable habit," he said prissily.

"That's not-"

"What if I were drinking on occasion?" Sherlock asked haughtily, "Would you be so quick to judge?"

John glared. "I'm about to be a doctor. You can't smoke."

_Can't?_

* * *

Sherlock sat stubbornly in their…no…his bed, glaring at the laptop screen. The bed felt empty, horrendously empty and it created a nagging emptiness in his stomach.

It was bad enough when John was actually away. Easier to pretend he wasn't thinking about the absence and to just sleep when he absolutely had to, when he could be guaranteed that he would fall straight to sleep without thinking about the person that should be lying next to him. But knowing John was just down the hall in a spare room, being just as stubborn as he was?

Hateful.

A quiet knock on the door made him shift suddenly, bringing up random screens that looked complicated and important.

He refused to question who was at the door. At half four in the morning there could only be one person.

John opened the door, ignored him and climbed into bed, then curled up around Sherlock, all in a strange and rather impressive display of disapproving silence.

"I can smoke if I want to," Sherlock said stubbornly half an hour later. But John was asleep and so the point that he had made repeatedly ten hours ago was lost once more.

Sherlock put the laptop to one side and curled up around John.

* * *

"I'm not going to be happy about it," John told him, arms folded.

"I didn't expect you would be," Sherlock replied, watching the fish closely.

"And I am going to try everything to get you to quit smoking."

That was expected, though annoying. Sherlock made no comment as he continued to gaze at the fish, waiting.

"But I am not spending the rest of my time here having a fight."

That seemed sensible.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"I accidently poured something into the tank."

There was a very long silence. "When you say accidently…"

"I didn't consider the effect it would have on the fish."

Sherlock could hear John tutting and then his partner bent close, their faces side by side as they stared at the tank. "What did you pour in?"

"The whiskey your mother bought you," the woman was a blethering idiot at times.

"Was that because I flushed your cigarettes down the toilet?"

No.

Wait…what?

Sherlock turned to John, his nose almost bumping John's cheek they were so close. "You flushed my cigarettes? Do you have any idea how much they cost?"

John didn't take his eyes off the tank, "Just think, if you didn't buy them then you could probably afford your precious taxi rides once a week."

"Or I could take a leaf out of your book, turn part thief and steal cigarettes from gay Alf."

There was a slight flicker around John's lips which meant he was tempted to smile.

"You're buying me a new packet," Sherlock complained.

"I'm really, really not," John stood up, tilting his head. "I think the red one's having some difficulty."

"I'll forgive you if you take the blame," Sherlock bargained, standing up again.

"Blame my mother," John shrugged, "She's beyond redemption in your mother's eyes."

"Finally, a use for the woman."

* * *

"Would you accept Doctor's orders as a reason to quit?"

"Why?" Sherlock flicked through the paper looking for something interesting. "Is he visiting?"

A piece of paper slipped over the page he was reading.

Sherlock stared at it, reading the print and raised his eyes to John who looked as if he'd just been named King.

"Nice try," Sherlock lifted the medical licence and handed it back to John. "A non-smoking restaurant is all I can manage for hypocritical doctors."

John rapped him over the head with the certificate.

He supposed that was a fitting metaphor.

* * *

"Do you know what it does to your body?" John asked the following morning. "Your appetite is shit as it is without adding this to the mix."

"It can hardly get worse," Sherlock commented, frowning as John placed a box of orange straws on the table. "What are you doing?"

"Proving my point. See this," John picked up a straw, "Is your vein."

Sherlock stared at it. "You are aware there is more than one vein in the body? And that they are not bright orange?"

"This is a normal vein," John picked up a needle full of water and pushed it into the straw. Instantly water flooded out and splattered over Sherlock's cuff. "The water is the blood."

Sherlock stared at his damp cuff, unimpressed.

"This," John reached for a mangled looking straw. "Is your vein when you smoke." He picked up the plunger again and pressed.

This time the water trickled out. And this time when the water trickled out there was something disgusting with it that made Sherlock yelp and yank his hand back to study it.

Fat. John had actually put fat into the straw.

"This is an expensive shirt-" Sherlock started to say.

"Then don't smoke!"

* * *

They'd been out to dinner. A quiet dinner that was in as romantic a setting as both of them could bear and still remain comfortable in.

Then John had ordered an ice-cream sundae while Sherlock had popped out the back for a smoke. By the time it had arrived Sherlock was sitting back at the table and had to endure John licking the spoon as if he were a bloody porn star.

"That was cruel," Sherlock hissed as they tumbled through the front door in a frantic scrabbling of hands. "All the way home all I could think about was this," he dipped his head down as he pressed John against the wall, kissing him finally…

John pushed at him until Sherlock stood back, worried.

"What?"

John had the strangest look on his face. "I'm sorry," he wrinkled his nose, "But it's like kissing a fucking ashtray."

And with that he ducked under Sherlock's arm.

"Use mouthwash," John called over his shoulder. "Or soap," he added with a mutter.

"You did the ice-cream on purpose," Sherlock hissed at John as he walked up the stairs leaving Sherlock unsatisfied in the hall.

"Would I?"

Yes.

* * *

There was one way to battle this.

"How do you get your wife to kiss you after you smoke?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade gaped at him as he held his wriggling male offspring in his arms. "We have had this conversation about showing up at my house-" Lestrade started to say.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, "About cases. But you encouraged me to smoke. On your DI's car no less. So you fix this."

Guilt was a wonderful motivator. "I…" Lestrade leaned against the frame, bouncing the belligerent ball of flesh. "Carry gum."

Gum?

No. Not even for John.

"Next option," Sherlock ordered.

"Get him to smoke?"

Unlikely. Also morally ambiguous, an option not allowed when regarding John.

"Next?"

"Don't smoke at home?" Lestrade looked unsure. "I carry gum," he defended looking a little put-out.

Waste of time.

"I take it your John's back?"

Your John? Inwardly Sherlock nuzzled the phrase with some contentment. Your John.

Lestrade occasionally found the correct facts.

"Yes," Sherlock scowled. "He just qualified as a doctor and is now on a mission to cure the world."

"Cut down when he's home?" Lestrade offered hesitantly, his tone softer. "If it bothers him that much."

But that wasn't a solution. He needed a solution.

* * *

"Your fingers will go yellow," John pointed out three nights later as Sherlock stood by the Thames, enjoying his smoke. John was next to him, staring out across the water, previously lost in thought.

"No-one notices," Sherlock flicked to drop the building ash. "No-one ever notices," he added sourly. "Too caught up in their own lives, too thick to notice."

There was a very long sigh next to him and then John reached out, plucking the cigarette from Sherlock. If John threw it in the river then Sherlock swore John would be following-

John took a drag, calmly. Then another and handed it back.

"I'll quit when you come back properly," Sherlock offered, taking one himself.

John nodded, seeming distracted. "They'll ban it one day," he said.

"Ridiculous," Sherlock dismissed. "Too many are invested in the tobacco industry. It will never happen."

"You miss me."

Of course he did! Sherlock held out the cigarette again and John put his lips to it this time, not taking it but breathing it in all the same. "Yes," Sherlock said awkwardly.

"Are you…do you ever think about…starting up again?" John asked, not looking at Sherlock as his voice wavered.

"No," Sherlock said firmly.

John looked at him.

"Yes," Sherlock heard himself say. "But," he hissed in frustration. "I would never act upon it." Unbidden his eyes dropped to John's arm and an image, that horrible, never to be blurred image of John, his face lit up by the flashing lights of the ambulance as he lay still and unresponsive, hit Sherlock again.

John stepped closer, his side brushing against Sherlock's and automatically Sherlock lifted his free hand around John's shoulders, pulling him even closer.

"I don't…" John turned his head into Sherlock, "I'm not really sure how to do this," he confessed. "How to disapprove without being overbearing. Of course I don't want you to smoke but…" John shrugged. "Is it wrong that it's not that much of a big deal at the moment? I mean in comparison to-"

Sherlock leaned away to inhale and then flicked the finished butt away into the water. "I believe I have found myself in a similar position," he confessed.

"So," John pressed in a little further. "Two attempts each visit to get you to quit?"

"One a week," Sherlock bargained. "Every seven days."

"Are you just trying to get me to stay longer?" John teased.

"Always."


	3. Etiquette

Author's Note:

Apologies for the delay with this fic. I am now at a point where we can go back to once a week updates and we shouldn't have the collapse again! I struggled to get back into it but I think I've found the rhythm again. If anyone is interested in what they read here there is a note at the bottom explaining the tradition.

* * *

Summary: John invites Sherlock to his first mess. Shame it isn't Sherlock's.

* * *

Etiquette

"You will be good, won't you?" his mother asked.

Sherlock stared at her as he paused in the doorway.

He needed to move out.

"I am not five," he snapped. "I am perfectly capable of enduring a sit down meal."

"And I will see you tomorrow," his mother continued blithely on, clearly ignoring him. "Try not to wrinkle your suit."

The urge to dig his hands in his pocket and glare was tempting but would probably just enforce her urge to smother him with the etiquette talk. "I will refrain from scrunching it up into a ball and kicking it around the room."

"I meant that you should hang it up tonight rather than leave it on John's floor."

Reluctantly his lips twitched. It was still a mystery as to exactly when his mother had acquired this wry sense of humour. Certainly she'd never shown it when his father had been alive.

But then the man had been a miserable dullard who despised anything that sounded like laughter. Seeing them all smile that night years ago when Sherlock had first brought John to dinner had probably killed him off.

"I am not allowed in his room," Sherlock shifted his hand on the door handle.

The look he got made him lose the battle and smile.

* * *

_3__rd__ June 2005_

_It was turning out to be the worst fucking birthday ever._

_John yawned his way through dinner, shattered. The training exercise had been long and of course, despite it being June and despite not being in England, it had rained continuously. In fact it had rained so bloody hard that John was half convinced it was Mycroft's version of punishment for leaving him to deal with a furious Sherlock Holmes who seemed to think that John's birthday and Christmas should be an army holiday._

_But John was relatively sure Mycroft couldn't control the weather._

_Yet._

_He wandered back through the halls, almost half asleep. It was second nature now to notice the officers uniform and salute. It was amazing what polishing a squads boots would remind you to do._

"_Cadet Watson."_

_He knew that voice._

_He was going to kill the owner of that voice…once he'd finished shagging him senseless._

* * *

The reception was filled with people, most in army dress uniform, some, like Sherlock in black tie evening wear.

"You and that bloody coat."

John.

Turning he rolled his eyes, "It's-"

Whatever he'd been about to say was forgotten.

It wasn't the uniform, although he appreciated the tailored lines and the colour on John. For whatever reason, his partner seemed to have a distaste of formal wear and his usual clothes, even the combat uniform, hid his form.

No, it was the expression. The one of pride and confidence that made Sherlock step towards John appreciatively. The stance, already helped by the years training in the army, seemed far more natural now; far more a part of the man in front of him.

John, oblivious, was grinning, "I swear you'd look good in a frigging bin bag," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Take the coat off," he added, nodding his head towards the staff standing by a room that led to the coat stands.

Reluctantly, Sherlock started to tug the coat off. "I assume that means there's no handy closet," he asked.

"For?"

"It's been ten weeks," Sherlock glared at him as someone (a man with pristinely clean hands and cuffs who had been doing the job for over ten years) took his coat.

John smiled and reached over, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Hello," he said, clearly amused.

"In three hours I am going to explain why that is not a proper hello," Sherlock huffed as John led him to the bar.

* * *

_3__rd__ June 2005_

_Sherlock opened the door and yanked John in with such force that John momentarily found himself in mid-air._

_Then his back was against the door, Sherlock's hands were alternatively fiddling with the handle and with John's trousers._

"_There's no bloody lock," Sherlock growled into his mouth._

_John just shrugged, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, clutching at him desperately. "So? You're not actually an officer you madman. No-one's gonna come looking to give you a message."_

"_Good," Sherlock pulled away, "I'm not entirely sure it's good form to walk into a room to see an officer getting buggered by a cadet."_

_John blinked and then tackled him to the bed._

* * *

"You must be John's guest for this evening," Captain Tomlinson held out her hand to Sherlock.

"Ma'am," John saluted and then smiled, "May I introduce Sherlock Holmes."

"A pleasure," Captain Tomlinson shook his hand. "You'll be at the parade tomorrow?"

"Indeed."

She nodded and made her way around the room. Sherlock watched her with a frown.

"Don't."

Surprised, he turned, "What?"

"I don't want to know," John said firmly, handing him a drink. "Whatever it is-"

"You did not," Sherlock broke off, slightly unsure, "Introduce me as your partner."

John levelled a look at him, "Excuse me?" he asked, a hint of danger in his tone.

Sherlock stared back at him coolly.

"Ma'am," John called and Captain Tomlinson turned back, an enquiring look on her face, "I'm sorry, I meant to add, this is Sherlock Holmes my gay partner."

Captain Tomlinson raised an eyebrow and looked between the two of them, "I know who he is," she said, sounding almost amused. "Anything else you'd like to mention."

John shook his head looking triumphant, "Apologies Ma'am." Then looked at Sherlock, folding his arms. "Do you need me to declare it to everyone? Or can you trust that I talked about you enough that they didn't need the extended introduction."

"I…he cares," Sherlock nodded in the direction of a middle aged man who had watched the exchange with disapproval.

"He cares that I just used a senior officer to make a point," John sipped at his drink. "As long as I don't shove my hand down your trousers or my tongue down your throat, no-one gives a damn." He nodded at a couple in the corner. "That is impolite," he muttered, glaring at the extended kiss.

Sherlock tilted his head at John, a number of instances where John had behaved 'impolitely' jumping to the front of his mind.

"For the occasion," John grinned. "Of course, if you really want, I could go around calling you 'angel' and 'life lover'-"

"Enough, yes, you have made your point," Sherlock winced. "Partner is acceptable. How many times must have we this discussion?"

"Once more boyfriend, always once more."

* * *

_3__rd__ June 2005_

_John's head was resting on Sherlock's throat, the pulse point there was practically begging to be nuzzled and licked. _

_Later. When he could feel his toes again._

"_Heavy," Sherlock murmured without any heat. "Good stamina. Well done."_

"_You're marking me now?" John briefly considered raising his head and then decided against it. "Not heavy," he added._

_A clever hand stroked along his back and dimly John realised that Sherlock's splayed legs must be aching from being spread for so long. But Sherlock showed no sign of moving._

"_You're a good birthday present," John decided sleepily. "Fun."_

_A hand threaded into his hair, "Good." _

* * *

They walked into the Indian Army Memorial Room, following in an organised way that Sherlock vaguely approved of. Next to him John seemed to be taking a deep breath.

"Relax," Sherlock murmured under his breath. "You survived being two seats away from my father in your first formal dining setting."

"He didn't," John muttered and then shot Sherlock a worried glance.

Entertained, Sherlock shook his head.

They stopped at their seats; John had diligently checked on the plan three times much to Sherlock's amusement. Standing they waited for the head table to arrange themselves.

"All members and guests are present, Sir," a man at the side said. The steward Sherlock assumed.

Next to him John tilted his head, someone clearly catching his eye. Sherlock glanced at him as the President of the Mess Committee rapped the gavel for silence and begun grace.

John had gone slightly pale and Sherlock snapped his gaze around the room to find what it was that was disturbing him.

Ah.

Shit.

* * *

_4__th__ June 2005 (2.23am)_

_Sherlock hissed in pleasure and John couldn't help but grin as he sucked. Smoothing a possessive hand along Sherlock's thighs, John gave a pleased noise, watching as Sherlock arched._

_There was a noise somewhere down the corridor but John ignored it, familiar with the odd sounds that could occur while on base._

_Sherlock tensed instantly and sat up, forcing John to back up or chose between a broken nose and biting down._

"_It's not like you to be-"_

_But Sherlock was already shoving at him and John had just hit the floor next to the bed when there came a knock at the door._

"_Don't answer," John hissed urgently, "You can't pull off-" _

_But Sherlock pushed at him with his foot, almost shoving John under the bed as he reached for his (stolen) trousers. From his viewpoint under the bed, John could see Sherlock's bare feet crossing to the door._

_Oh god, this was it. This was how his glorious career went up in flames because-_

"_Yes?" Sherlock snapped._

_Because Sherlock was going to piss off an entire base in twenty seconds flat._

* * *

They sat down and Sherlock plucked up both his and John's name cards, putting them into his pocket when John gave him a strange look.

"We'll discuss that later," Sherlock muttered. "And relax. It's been a year, he may not even recognise me."

John looked doubtful. "Yeah, because you're such a forgetful character," he rubbed at his head and sat back.

"You all right John?" asked one of the men who had trained with John. Another Doctor, judging from his ears and hands.

John stared at the man as if he'd never seen him before and then shook his head, "Yeah, sorry. Gary, this is Sherlock. Sherlock Gary; he's a doctor that's trained with me."

Sherlock nodded at the man who grinned, "The famous Sherlock eh? John's talked about little else."

"Really?" Sherlock looked at John who still looked distracted. Under the table he gave John a kick that seemed to jolt him back to reality.

"Aye, your boy's got me through these last ten weeks. None of us were surprised he was selected."

Selected?

Sherlock turned to John who flushed a little. "Why, what have you been selected for?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's how you're here," Gary laughed, "The three that impressed the most were allowed to invite a guest to the first mess. It's an incentive."

"Yeah," another chipped it. "Watson and Davis were the obvious two from the start. Hobbs was the surprise hit."

"Oy," the young man he had seen earlier with the girlfriend complained. "You're all just jealous."

John grinned but his heart wasn't in it.

"Stop looking," Sherlock murmured. "You'll draw attention."

* * *

_4__th__ June 2005_

"_Apologies for the late hour, we need you to look over the debriefing papers downstairs."_

_John sagged in relief. Not an officer. Small mercies happened._

"_One minute," Sherlock snapped, less than gracious._

"_But sir-"_

"_Or do you expect me to walk around half dressed and out of uniform?"_

"_I-"_

_Sherlock slammed the door and John banged his head on the floor in sheer misery. "You should go," John said shifting and wriggling out from under the bed._

"_Indeed," Sherlock looked oddly triumphant as he started to get dressed._

_In the captain's uniform again._

"_Sherlock-" John sat back onto his arse and stared up at Sherlock as he wrapped the duvet around him. "Probably not the best idea to try leaving dressed like that._

"_Leaving?" Sherlock seemed genuinely confused. "I'm going to the debrief."_

"_No," John yelped, scrambling up and trying to catch Sherlock as he buttoned up. "Don't you dare-"_

_But Sherlock, being at a distinct advantage as he was actually dressed and not naked, smirked as he placed the cap on his head, "You can't order an officer Watson."_

_John nearly screamed at him, "You're not a fucking-"_

"_Watson."_

_The tone was so stern that John blinked and then glared. "I reuse to have any part of this insanity-"_

_It was clear that Sherlock couldn't give a damn and needed absolutely no help from John as he checked himself in the mirror. "You should get dressed."_

_John threw his shoe at Sherlock's head. Disappointingly it just skimmed his ear and thudded against the wall._

_He was a quick bastard when he wanted to be._

* * *

There was a rule about not letting the port touch the table. There also seemed to be an unspoken rule that the others on the table would try to make that as hard as possible for each other. Once the toast was done John stared at the port with some distaste.

"Still not a fan?" Sherlock asked calmly, watching John sip.

"No," John seemed to be distracted, his eyes on Hobbs as the young man squirmed and tried to explain why there was a dirty message passed around the room on his place card. "How did you know about that?"

"Not my first mess John," Sherlock replied amused.

The reminder had probably not been a good idea. Immediately John's face paled and his eyes slid to Lieutenant Colonel Lomman who was sat a few tables away. The man had gained even more weight in the year since Sherlock had last seen him and was in what looked to be a very deep conversation with a Major.

* * *

_5__th__ June 2005_

_Sherlock was having far, far too much fun in his role. The small mercy seemed to be that he was keeping John out if it in case everything went tits up._

_When everything went tits up. John couldn't possibly see how this would work._

"_That new Captain's mental," Neville said as they walked down together. "Have you met him?"_

"_No," John lied, careful of the mud as they made their way to the location. "Why?"_

"_I dunno, just something odd about the way he does things. Makes sense, but it isn't quite right."_

_That's because Sherlock was flying off the seat of his pants. Although it would give John a chance to see just how much Sherlock had actually listened to during the conversations._

_That night when he got back there were two texts._

Tell Sherlock to stop this right now. The fact that I have forged documentation was not meant to be taken as approval for this charade. MH

Dinner is dull without you. Customs are easy to work out. Bored. SH

_John stared at the last text, trying to restrain the urge to giggle._

* * *

"Holmes."

Sherlock winced. After dinner was always going to be the dangerous part. Thankfully John was currently surrounded by adoring fans. Raising an enquiring eyebrow seemed the safest way forward when dealing with Lieutenant Colonel Lomman

"What do you think you're doing here?"

"If you need me to explain that to you then I am severely worried for your men," Sherlock sipped at his drink, revelling in the sudden flustered glare. "Have you enjoyed your evening so far?"

"You cannot be here, I specifically recommended that-"

"Is there a problem?"

Both of them turned to the man standing to their side, a frown on his face.

The President of the Mess Committee stood and waited.

"Sir, this man-"

"Watson's guest," there was a stress on the last word.

Lomman stuttered, clearly torn and then nodded slightly. The President of the Mess Committee walked away after a very long look at Lomman.

"Watson?" Lomman hissed, looking over at John.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked with false politeness.

Lomman narrowed his eyes and looked back at Sherlock, "Guest?"

Amused, Sherlock nodded, part of him desperate to dare Lomman into saying something but, behind Lomman, he could see John laughing at something.

"Do attempt to retain some measure of etiquette," Sherlock suggested, inwardly crowing when Lomman's eyes widened in fury.

It certainly went some way to making up for the last time they'd stood together.

* * *

_June 2005_

"_Well?" John asked, standing worried._

"_Lieutenant Colonel Lomman has decided __to recommend I be discharged for __unseemly conduct," Sherlock announced with a certain amount of melodrama._

_John stared._

"_You…" he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How?"_

"_Apparently I did not show the correct amount of mortification," Sherlock smiled. "My attitude and actions leave them with no choice."_

_John stared at him, "But you aren't in the army," he said slowly._

"_Mercifully," Sherlock said, studying his finger nails. "They found some corresponding records."_

"_How-" John sat down. "So, let me get this straight," he said looking up. "You have managed to get yourself recommended for discharge, despite having never served a day in your life?"_

"_I think you'll find I have been a Captain for a full week," Sherlock sniffed. "Better than you've managed so far," he shook himself, "I would howe__ver avoid the __Lieutenant Colonel for a few months."_

"_What the hell did you do?" John asked for what felt like the hundredth time._

"_John," Sherlock stepped forward. "I have discovered that though I still enjoy your company there are now very few mysteries between us."_

_Folding his arms, John screwed up his face, waiting._

"_Therefore, for the sake of our relationship, I feel it is best if we keep some mysteries between us."_

_Oh god. John stared at Sherlock unimpressed, "How much would I kill you if I knew?"_

_Sherlock seemed to be weighing it up. "Somewhat," he answered eventually._

_Great._

* * *

"I could just sneak up-"

John looked at him, that wonderful amused look that made Sherlock want to simultaneously smile and wince. "Well," John fiddled with Sherlock's jacket collar. "Sherlock I feel that though I love you deeply, there are some things that need to remain mysterious."

"That was a terrible attempt to quote me."

"You recognised it," John grinned and pressed a kiss to his lips. "I'll let you up if you tell me what you did?"

Sherlock glanced up, tempted. "I'll tell you when you're a captain too."

John laughed "You were demoted," he pointed out.

"Recommended for demotion," Sherlock corrected.

"Right…" John took a deep breath. "Try to behave tomorrow. I don't want to see your mum clumping you over the head half way through."

"Indeed, let's not give your mother ideas."

* * *

_Three days later_

"Second Lieutenant Watson," his mother smiled at John. "Good afternoon."

John beamed, "That sounds so weird," he said, shaking his head at the table.

"No more than Captain Holmes would," Mycroft said snidely.

Their mother glanced between them, "Why would you use that example?" she asked.

Sherlock glared at his brother, "He's failing to be clever," he snapped.

"Oh you should have been at the passing out parade," his mother said to Mycroft as she sighed and smiled proudly at John. "It was wonderful, so regimented."

Sherlock exchanged a look with Mycroft and then with John who glared at him. Annoyed, Sherlock pressed his lips together to refrain from commenting on the obviousness of her comment.

"So how long will you be here for?" Mycroft asked politely.

"Not sure, waiting for my marching orders," the sheer enthusiasm on John's face was painful.

"Germany again?" his mother asked, passing the salad.

There was a flicker of something. "Maybe," John replied easily.

Next to John, Mycroft stiffened and locked gazes with Sherlock. Dropping his eyes from the stare, Sherlock stabbed at a tomato with more violence than was required.

That night, while John lay sprawled out across the bed on his front like a bedraggled starfish, Sherlock watched his sleeping face. The chain around John's neck was just shy of being taut as Sherlock held the bullet in between his fingers, staring at the scar on John's arm.

Plotting.

* * *

Next Chapter: "Five Stages"

* * *

Note for those interested about John's training.

_The Professionally Qualified Officer (PQO) __course at Sandhurst is for new British Army O__f__ficers who hold professional qualifications, such as doctors, vets, lawyers, dentists, nurses, physiotherapists and chaplains. The course is designed to familiarise PQOs with military life and to prepare them f__or operational deployment._

_The course takes ten weeks to complete and is based directly on the Regular Commissioning Course. The focus is on officership, command and leadership, and the syllabus includes field training, physical training, weapons training __and, of course, drill. When not out in the field PQOs will find themselves in the classroom, learning, for example, about global security, a__s__pects of leadership psychology and the history of warfare._

_Some of the most exciting parts of the course are the ta__ctical exercises, a week on the ranges firing the Army's latest weapons systems, learning how to use the latest digital communic__a__tion equipment and the physical challenge of core survival skills. The Final Exercise centres around operating in a contemporar__y environment and contains elements of peace support operations, war fighting, negotiation and media operations._

_The final hurdle is the preparation for the Passing Out Parade. The night before, a formal dinner is held in the magnificent surroundings of th__e Indian Army Memorial Room in Old College, where everyone wears mess kit for the first time. The next day the PQOs march out to pay their last visit to the parade square with the support of a military band and the parade commander on horseback. Afterwards__, family and friends are invited into Old College to join in the celebrations at the parade lunch. ~ source – The army website found at *www*army*mod*uk_

Author's Note: A mess is then the formal dinners held by the officers. There are all kinds of rules and regulations depending on the regiment. I would also point out that this is likely to have a few inaccuracies as I've cobbled together a few sources and then used artistc licence (I love that phrase!).


	4. Five Stages

Five Stages

Summary: John gets his deployment details; Afghanistan. Those around him each experience one of the five stages of grief.

* * *

Afghanistan.

For what felt like the thirtieth time that night, John checked the deployment letter again. It felt like a dream…not a dream exactly, just not quite real. The words printed in black and white helped somewhat to convince him it was happening, that this was what his life had become.

A soldier, a doctor, sent to a warzone, to make a difference.

A friend, partner, sent into danger and away from those who know Sherlock Holmes.

Perhaps that was why it didn't feel real. When John received the letter he expected Sherlock to react; to scream and snarl and threaten to demand the Queen herself put out orders to stop John's deployment.

But Sherlock had just nodded and looked away, out the window and at the leaves that were turning gold outside. For a man who had kicked up an epic fuss when John joined the army, Sherlock now seemed oddly muted by the idea.

John folded the letter away again and glanced back at the empty bed with a sigh.

* * *

**Denial**

"Afghanistan?" Rebecca asked her son flatly. "Why would you want to go there?"

There was a look that John gave her sometimes, one that she distinctly did not appreciate and was certain was a look picked up from that Sherlock Holmes her son insisted on sleeping with. The one that said she was being unbearably stupid.

"It's an order," John replied slowly as he wrapped his hands around the mug. "They're short of doctors out there; I go where I'm needed."

"But you liked it in Germany. And in that African place you went to."

Another long look. Then her son just nodded wearily. "And I might enjoy this too," he said, "It is kind of what I've been training for."

"There are sick people all over the world," Rebecca snapped, "Pick a better location."

John looked down at his tea and she could see the anger bleeding off of him. It's odd, this strange relationship they now have. Shallow is what helps them, keeps them together. Shallow makes John laugh and her relax. They do not discuss things of consequence, they never will; that was made clear years ago.

"Maybe you won't be there for long," Rebecca said into the silence. "Maybe they'll send you to a hospital here. I mean we do have a few army bases here."

John clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Maybe," he said in a thoroughly non-committal tone.

"And doctors don't get hurt, do they?" Rebecca added with far more confidence now, remembering the things that Harry and Phil looked up for her on the internet. "There are agreements about medical staff."

If anything John looked more annoyed at that reminder. "Yeah," he said in a tight voice. "Safe as houses," he added, then blinked at the term and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

He was spending far too much time with that Holmes boy.

"Besides," Rebecca leaned back, debating with herself whether to succumb to the urge to have a chocolate biscuit and ruin her new diet. "It's Iraq that's always in the news isn't it. You're far safer in Afghanistan."

John took a very long sip of tea and then drew in a deep breath, "So how is Phil doing at work?" he asked politely.

"He just got promoted," Rebecca replied happily, deciding to let herself have that biscuit after all.

It was wise to celebrate when one's child was safe.

* * *

"Did you hear? John's off to Afghanistan?" Rebecca said to Harry later that night over the phone.

There was a very long silence. "And you're okay with it?"

"Oh he's hardly in any danger. It'll be good for him to get away from that boy."

"Right," Harry sounded doubtful. "Have you been at the wine, Mum?"

"Don't be silly." Phil had given her a strange look when he'd come home from work and then decided to give all the wine in the house to next door as they were about to become grandparents for the first time.

She doubted she'd be getting it back. Two gay children did not make grandchildren seem likely. Though it did mean she would avoid being called Gran or something equally…old sounding.

"It's what he's trained to do. And maybe being that far away will get him out of that relationship."

"Maybe," Harry said in the exact same tone of voice John had used.

Her children always thought they knew best. She had no idea where they'd gotten it from.

* * *

**Anger**

"Afghanistan?" Andy asked, screwing up his nose. "Are you fucking mental?"

John stared at him and then took a deep swig of his pint. "Why does everyone think I phoned the bloody army up and put in a request?" he sighed fiddling with the beer mat.

Andy stared at him, not entirely sure that the idiotic, self-sacrificial moron in front of him wouldn't have done just that. "Did you?"

"No!" John threw the mat on the table. "Jesus, what do you think I am? I go where they need me; I don't put in requests like some spoilt brat."

No, that seemed oddly reasonable of John. "But…" Andy scrubbed a hand over his face. "My mate Leo Jenson-"

"The journalist?"

"Yeah," Andy nodded, "He has a mate over there…it's a war zone, John. No days off, no escape from it. Everywhere you go you will have to be on your guard-"

John looked away shaking his head. "You make it sound as if I'm a one man army."

"And you make it sound as if you're off on another cushy army base," Andy hissed. "John, mate, have you thought this through-"

John sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "I'm not a child, Andy. I know what I'm doing."

"You did this to get away from Sherlock-"

John hissed under his breath.

"-you're trained now, you don't owe them anything, Mycroft saw to that. You can still help out in your spare time with weekend things, but you've got what you needed to get from the army and yet you're-"

"I made a commitment," John slammed his fist down on the table. "I have friends in there now, over there. Do you think I'm just gonna say 'no thank you' because I might get hurt?"

"I think you're losing sight of why you did this," Andy snapped.

John shook his head, "Did Sherlock put you up to this?" he asked, suspicions darkening his features.

"Sherlock?" Andy snorted, "Yeah, like he'd hold his tongue on this and ask me to put in a word. Have you met your boyfriend, you dickhead?"

John still looked suspicious.

"He hasn't said anything to you, has he?" Andy let out a warped laugh. "Christ John, what about him? You know how much he-"

"I am not backing out of this for him. He didn't for me."

That one sentence made Andy's spine shiver. "How long have you been holding onto that one?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"Fuck off," John stood and downed what was left of his pint. "You've done nothing with your life but shag around and make jokes so don't you dare start on me because I'm doing something with my life rather than sitting around like Sherlock's fucking housewife, waiting for him to tell me what to do next."

Andy shook his head as John slammed down the pint and watched his mate storm out of the pub, trying to ignore just how much that hurt.

* * *

_What did you say to John? SH_

_Truth. Hes a fucking cockhead. Y havent u said nything 2 him?_

_Must you text like that? SH_

_Fuck u cant b arsed with grammar. Its a txt._

_What did you say to him? SH_

_That hes got what he needed from the army, he doesnt need 2 stay._

_I see. SH_

_Tell him hes a tosser. It was his turn 2 buy a round. Cld have done it b4 he fucked off. _

_And mate? Hes still not over what happened with the drugs. Don't fuck him over here._

_Why do you say that? SH_

_Not your spy Sherlock. Just giving you a heads up. _

* * *

**Bargaining**

"Afghanistan?" Violet breathed in horror. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded, "I have been able to read English for quite a few years now," he snapped.

The idea was horrendous. Her John out in that country, so far from home, so stranded in the midst of chaos.

"Well, what are you going to do?" she demanded as he opened up the newspaper.

Slowly, her son looked up. "I would have thought that was obvious? Read the paper."

"Don't be facetious Sherlock," Violet snapped. "About John."

"John is an adult, capable of making his own decisions," Sherlock scanned the crime section first, in a habit she was by now used to.

"Your brother," Violet decided, "He must have some sway over these matters. He can change John's deployment."

Sherlock, as if the matter was of no interest to him, turned the page. "The class of criminal masterminds in this city is truly appallingly dull," he huffed.

"Sherlock!" Violet tapped her foot. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, you wish to get Mycroft to tell the army to change the deployment details of a doctor they need and who wants to go and will likely chase the matter up. John is hardly stupid mother; he will guess what has been done."

"So?"

Sherlock smirked and glanced up, "I am sure you were never this dismissive of propriety when I was young."

"Perhaps you never noticed it," Violet replied.

"Unlikely."

"He'll be angry at me," Violet sat down. "Not you."

Sherlock's grey eyes flickered at her, clearly tempted by the offer. Then he shook his head and looked back down.

"Sherlock-"

"No."

* * *

Her son was too logical at times and, as far as Violet could tell, likely in deep denial, though that seemed uncharacteristic. If there was one thing Violet had learned in the years John had been a part of her family it was that nothing about Sherlock was characteristic when John was involved.

"Can you do it?"

Mycroft sighed and shifted in his seat. "I could make some enquiries-"

"Do not patronise me," Violet frowned down at her eldest. "I am not some minister to be fobbed off with clever words. I am your mother and you will do as I tell you."

Mycroft looked severely tempted to obey. "I…what good will it do? I cannot continuously keep John away from danger zones. He is a medical professional, he is too valuable for the army to forget and dismiss."

"There must be something you can do?"

"Mother, my reach only extends so far," Mycroft sighed. "I am not asking for favours when there is nothing to be gained from it-"

"You don't believe John's safety is worth it?"

"Not when he won't accept it," Mycroft said firmly. "There is little I can do when John wants to go."

"Then I will speak to him."

Mycroft shot her a doubtful look and ducked his head back to his work.

* * *

"Why would you want to go?"

John paused as he cut into his sandwich, frowned and turned to look at Sherlock who was examining a carrot intently.

"Did you put her up to this?"

An ugly look crossed Sherlock's face, "Why do you continuously assume I am incapable of expressing my feelings about this using my own mouth? I have no need to run to anyone; I am far more concise than any of them."

Still looking doubtful, John turned to Violet with a sigh. "I want to make a difference, I want to help. There are people out there giving their lives and I am not sitting here, twiddling my thumbs and wasting my training."

"There are other causes," Violet said firmly. "Ones that keep you here, with us, so we can help when things get too much."

That put John's back up. "I'm fine."

Next to him Sherlock glared at the ceiling at the phrase and muttered something under his breath.

"You don't even seem upset," Violet challenged John, ignoring her son.

"I'm not intending to die!" John scraped a hand through his hair, "Yes it happens, but the casualty list…it's not as if there are hundreds dropping dead every hour. And I'm a doctor; I won't be intentionally placed in a fire fight. I'm a rescue guy or in a medical tent or a secure building being used as a hospital. Why do you all think I'm going to be marching out like GI Joe?"

"You don't seem to be upset at leaving us," Violet said, her voice sounding quiet to her ears after John's increasingly louder rant.

John looked taken aback. Next to him, Sherlock put the carrot down and glared at her furiously.

"This isn't the same," she said slowly. "You're too far away to realistically be flying back if you have a weekend off and tours last a long time. You'll be in a military base…will you still be allowed your phone to text?"

John sat back.

"You won't be training any more John. You will be in the army with all the restrictions that requires-"

Sherlock got up and slammed the door behind him as he stormed out of the kitchen.

John looked shell-shocked.

"Mycroft can get you out of it, but only if you want to get out of it," Violet said gently as she stood. "Just…promise me you will think about it."

John nodded slowly.

* * *

**Depression**

Sherlock had flung himself onto their bed, his back to the door as he glared at the curtains.

"We'll manage," John said quietly. "We will, we'll find a way around it all. We always do."

Sherlock didn't turn. "No," he said firmly. "We won't."

"But…" John sat down on the edge. "I…we…" he closed his eyes. "I made a promise."

Sherlock snorted.

"I want to do this," John admitted, "But…that doesn't mean I want to leave you behind."

The lines of Sherlock's back remained firm and unyielding. "You want one more than the other," Sherlock said eventually. "Let's not lie about this John."

"It's not like that," John shifted closer. "I know people who work it out, some soldiers have the strongest relationships I've ever seen-"

"Then their partners are suited to it."

Risky as it was, John slid closer to Sherlock and slowly eased himself behind his partner so they were spooning, which was always awkward because Sherlock's legs were never ending. "You are," he whispered into Sherlock's ear. "You have the cases, the work-"

Sherlock let out a long irritated sigh. "You assume that just because you are not here I don't have to base my life around you? I think you'll find it is the opposite. I will not take a holiday when you come back or sit clutching hands with army wives every time there is a news report that could bring the worst news-"

"I don't expect you to-"

"Then what will we have? A few stray moments when your leave matches up to a quiet crime day?"

"I don't know," John whispered, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's nape. "I just…we can manage anything."

"This is not a fairy tale John," Sherlock snapped ruthlessly. "Good things will not magically happen just because you want them to."

John pulled back, heat pounding. "Are you giving me an ultimatum?"

Sherlock let out a long breath and then shook his head. "To do so would end us," he said slowly, before turning to John. "And I have no wish to do that."

Part of John couldn't help but remember the last time Sherlock had made the demand, back when he had just returned from the clinic, spoiling for a fight. The memory pissed him off, even now, years later.

There would have to be a day, one day, where the memory wouldn't send John's blood pounding in fury at both himself and Sherlock.

John sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees, then rested his chin on them, thinking. One day they would be a crime solving Sherlock Holmes and an ex-army doctor John Watson who were able to just be, free of stupid decisions and frustrating choices.

"I…" John licked his lips thoughtfully, "Do you ever wish we'd met later? Once we were finished and-"

"No." Sherlock sat up against the headboard. "I despise the idea of wasting days without having you with me."

John smiled at the oddly sweet sentiment and nodded. "I just…" he sighed, "Sometimes I want to skip ahead and get to the good part."

Sherlock raised a doubtful eyebrow, "If that were the case then you being in the army would be pointless."

"I want too much," John said smiling and shaking his head. "But…" he reached out for Sherlock's hand. "More than anything I don't want to lose you."

Sherlock pulled at him, until John was straddling him. "I am not easy to lose," Sherlock said firmly.

John nodded and felt an odd sadness welling within him. "Shit," he breathed, "You're really not gonna be around," he gasped, tracing his finger over Sherlock's shirt. "How the fuck am I gonna do this?" he asked genuinely lost as he looked up at Sherlock.

Something odd lurked in that gaze. "You need to go," Sherlock let out a furious sounding breath as he looked away.

"I'm really forgetting why," John whispered, brushing his lips over Sherlock's skin as his fingers started to unbutton the shirt.

Sherlock wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. "Your turn John," he whispered in between kisses as he flipped John back onto the bed and followed him down.

"You keep track?" John asked, smiling fondly and bemused at the idea.

Sherlock didn't reply.

* * *

**Acceptance**

When John had opened the letter Sherlock had watched. Seen the puffed up chest of pride, the eager fingers and the slight quirk of the mouth.

Excited. John had been proud, eager and excited. Perhaps foolishly so, but those had been his reactions.

John hadn't looked at him the first time he had read the letter. It hadn't even entered his thought process to consider Sherlock, and there was both hurt and relief to be found in that.

It was John's turn to be the selfish one. Much as it pained him to accept that; to bite his tongue, to resist the urge to beg, plea, threaten and cajole. And, as John fell asleep against him, exhausted, Sherlock stared at the ceiling, still lost as to how John couldn't see just how strong he was.

John had kept them together when most would have failed; in circumstances that would have broken most couples. Sherlock could do the same. Could be at least half that strong.

Though, if that idiotic fool came back dead, Sherlock was going to find a way to resurrect him just to throttle him.

* * *

_Next Chapter: A Christmas to Remember: While waiting to see whether they will spend this Christmas together, John and Sherlock remember others that have come before._

* * *

_A__uthor's Note:_

_Hope you liked. Completely lost track with reviews this week - if I replied then yay, if not then boo to me. It's not an excuse but I had to teach small children this week. They cry and hug and it's all very deeply disturbing. Give me lazy teenagers, fights and attitides any day of the week over the little eager bunnies! It's completely ruined my brain!_


	5. Faith and hope to see it through

Hello all,

Apologies for being silent all week - I'm now on week four of having the most annoying cough and also supply teaching (not the best mix in the world!). But I am alive!

Not entirely sure why I picked this quote as the title for this chapter but it seemed to fit in some weird way that might just be because I'm dosed up!

"Sadly this Christmas passes away, so let us give thanks today, as we prepare  
for the year anew, with faith and hope to see it through."

Enjoy!

* * *

**Faith and hope to see it through**

**15th December 2006**

It was snowing.

They were stood staring down at a dead body that was almost delicately decorated with snowflakes that broke up the rather shocking red shirt the middle aged man was wearing.

One could almost forgive the murderer if they had picked their victim on a purely aesthetic principle.

They hadn't. Mr Williams had been killed for siphoning money from his boss. A rather dull case to be honest; killed by the boss' wife…(possibly sister) but certainly a woman roughly his age with a penchant for emerald green nail varnish that was showing up vividly in flecks against the truly awful shirt.

"Wife?" Lestrade looked deeply doubtful. "You haven't even bent down yet."

"Because it's disturbingly obvious," Sherlock eyed the floor with some distaste. "And I am not bending in the wet."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, seemingly showing some restraint as he took a pause that was just shy of ten seconds. "Fine. I will question the wife."

"Or sister. Or lover…look for the nail varnish. She'll probably have changed it by now but she will stick with jewel colours," Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. "If she's particularly vindictive she'll likely have pillar box red now."

Another doubtful look was levelled at him but Lestrade noted it down quickly enough.

"So Christmas," Lestrade said as he folded up the notebook. "John back this year?"

It was severely unlikely.

"No."

Best not to look like a moonstruck fool, hoping against the odds that their beloved would return. He had a reputation to maintain after all.

"So what will you be doing?"

"Oh, you know me," Sherlock smiled with his teeth. "I'll probably be going around to all the orphans, lit up like a Christmas tree, doling out presents," he said mockingly.

"Remind me not to ask next year."

* * *

It had been a relief to move out of his mother's house. She'd taken to looking at him with sad eyes, as if waiting for him to collapse into tears and start sobbing about the injustice of the world. Mycroft, to Sherlock's horror, had started coming over for meals and there would be looks exchanged over the table.

At least here he could shut the door and lock them and their pity out. Their pathetic inclination was to believe that just because John wasn't around (wouldn't be for months) Sherlock would collapse into a withered, fragile ball, mewling for comfort food.

He deleted the ten messages on his phone without bothering to listen. His mother was frustrating beyond measure at the moment, with her insistence that he be present for Christmas.

In Sherlock's memory there were three Christmases that had been worthwhile and all had required John.

Why bother?

For a moment he paused, staring at his phone wistfully, before shaking himself and looking away.

* * *

**24****th**** December 2004**

_**If you could have anything for Christmas what would you have?**_

_My usual. SH_

_**Which is?**_

_You. SH_

_**Knock, knock **_

No sooner had John sent the text than the flat door was yanked violently open. He barely had time to see Sherlock, dressed scruffily in his pyjamas and dressing gown**,** before John found himself with Sherlock pressing against him with such force that they hit the opposite wall, mouths frantically searching each other's, fingers clutching clothes and John felt the sudden urge to climb inside Sherlock and never ever leave again.

"You're here," Sherlock whispered, stunned, hands still running over John as if to reassure himself John wasn't a figment of his imagination. "You're here, you're here-"

John grinned at him, and then stared in horror over Sherlock's shoulder.

Slowly in his arms, Sherlock turned curiously.

"Your door," John said, struggling not to giggle. "You prat!"

Sherlock stared at the locked door, shrugged, and then kissed him again.

* * *

**18th December 2006**

"How you feeling?" John asked as he dragged a chair over to sit by Robin's bed.

"Shit," the soldier replied, glaring up at the ceiling, clearly utterly miserable. His leg, heavily plastered to keep the shattered bone in place to regrow the proper way, was elevated. "Merry fucking Christmas, right doc?"

"Who've you got at home?" John asked, flicking through the chart.

"Mum, Dad. Girlfriend," Robin snorted. "Bet she'll be pleased, being saddled with me like this."

"How long have you been seeing each other?" John asked.

"'bout two years." Robin smiled for what was possibly the first time since John had started treating him. "Everyone keeps telling us that after two years it's time for the big question."

Will you ever stop putting bloody organs in the fridge?

No, normal relationship…

"Oh," John winced, "That one."

Robin's smile faltered, "We'd have been brilliant," he said sadly. "She was…she was amazing with it. Had girls before that wanted me to spend all my leave with them, but she's…she gets me."

"I'm sure she'll get you whether or not you have the fashion accessory," John said, trying to keep his tone light.

"Right," Robin seemed to completely close down. "Sure."

There were more patients to see, though none of them critical…John looked at the curtain and then let out a breath and tossed the chart on the table.

"I was in hospital one Christmas," John said suddenly. "It'll be suffocating; they'll all suddenly realise how easy it could have been for you to…you know…have not been there. But they won't see you as a burden. More like a trophy."

Robin turned his head to John, "You ain't served long enough to have been out at Christmas."

"I was…attacked," John tilted his head. "One Christmas. I ended up in hospital, in a coma." John shook his head, trying to shake the memories away with it. "My partner was terrified. Battled my mother…in fact it was pretty much a warzone the entire time I was there."

Clearly eager for something to distract him from his own situation, Robin turned further towards John. "What's she like?"

"My mother?" John asked.

"No…your partner."

Ah. "Not a girl," John said a little wary. It was rare anyone said anything too frank if they disapproved, but he could usually see them shut down, uncomfortable. A few had even requested a different doctor.

But Robin, thankfully, just blinked and nodded. "What's he like then?"

"Uh…" John sat back a bit, trying to think of how to describe Sherlock. "Distinctive," John said with a grin. "No-one forgets him."

"Flamboyant?"

That made John laugh, "Jesus no. Rude, arrogant, obnoxious, genius…rude!" John grinned fondly. "I've seen grown men tremble from one of his tongue lashings."

Robin quirked an eyebrow which made John laugh. "That too," he admitted with a wink.

Robin laughed, looking a bit startled by the noise. "You miss him?" he asked.

John nodded.

"How long have you two been together?"

"Uh…officially three years," John frowned at the idea. "Unofficially…probably six. We had a…blurred start."

"You were together when you were attacked?"

"Yeah…Sherlock was…he uh…did drugs," John scratched at his nose. "One of his dealers was angry with him or me or just, you know, the world. Sherlock quit that Christmas."

"Must be a good memory," Robin said quietly.

"Some of it."

* * *

**21****st**** December 2003**

Sherlock was curled around him, like a security blanket or a sprawled out cuddly toy. In the weak light of dawn he looked exhausted and John was reluctant to move him.

The nurse, glaring at the pair of them from the door, seemed less reluctant. She was a big busted no nonsense woman, the type that John prayed he would have when he was a doctor and dreaded when he was a patient.

"Sherlock," John poked at him, hating to wake him but knowing it would be a hundred times worse if he allowed the nurse to do it. "You need to wake up."

"Tell that woman to leave. I am sleeping," Sherlock hissed at him.

"You tell her," John retorted.

Sherlock groaned, but sat up, struggling as he moved. Worried, John watched him, nervous as Sherlock's hand shook slightly when he sat up and slid with a strange amount of clumsiness into the chair by the bed. But when John opened his mouth to ask some sort of question, Sherlock shook his head fractionally and looked away.

The nurse did her checks (the discussion about toiletry habits was one he could have done minus Sherlock, who simply pulled a half interested face at the discussion). John could feel his own temper bristling by the end of it, a mixture of inactivity and the withdrawal mounting an assault at his patience.

It wasn't helped by Sherlock curling his fingers with the maximum amount of concentration as if trying to will something from under his skin.

"I'll give the doctor these," the nurse said, stepping away with her chart. "He'll be by for you shortly."

Even John, as a new doctor, knew that meant anywhere between five minutes and five hours.

He was hardly a priority at the moment.

"Shakes?" John asked as she closed the door.

Sherlock said nothing, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve on his wrist. "It's nothing," he dismissed.

"It's like something burrowing under your skin," John whispered, the words spilling from his lips without his say-so.

There was a startled look in Sherlock's eyes and he swallowed deeply. "I despise that you know this," he said slowly. "You shouldn't…this should never have happened."

"God, how do you deal with this," John asked, as his body skittered in a way he was sure it wasn't meant to. "It's like being squeezed into the wrong skeleton or something."

Sherlock stared at him and then shifted closer with the chair. Gingerly, he picked up John's arm.

Long fingers traced the lines of John's knuckles. One after the other, firm movements that felt oddly grounding. The pads of Sherlock's fingers traced bone down the back of the hand and to John's wrists.

"I know every inch of you," Sherlock said, his voice odd and distant, as if he wasn't speaking to John at all. "Every line. Every bone. Everything is fine, John."

But, even as he said it, his eyes lifted to the bandages around John's upper arm; the ones that hid the damage Victor's needle had done. Slowly their eyes met.

"You need to go home," John said hoarsely, stroking Sherlock's hair awkwardly. "You need…"

Sherlock either needed cocaine or a bed.

"There won't be a space at a clinic until after Christmas. Even with Mycroft's interfering."

God.

Sherlock must have seen something in his face, because he leaned forward suddenly, hands moving to grab at the back of John's head.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered after a moment's consideration. "I truly had hoped to improve on Christmas this year."

Chuckling weakly John plucked at Sherlock's sleeve. "Well, one year we got together and this year you're getting clean. To be honest I'd say you've fucked yourself for next year."

Sherlock laughed and pressed a kiss to John's forehead.

* * *

**20th December 2006**

"What time will you be coming over?" his mother asked.

Never. Sherlock kicked distractedly at a blood stained sheet that he had been using to determine blood splatters. "I hate Christmas dinner," he tried.

"I'm aware," his mother sounded like she was in a grand mood. This would be harder than usual.

"And Mycroft."

Now there was an annoyed click of the tongue. "This feud between you is getting ridiculous. It's Christmas."

"He's fat."

"Stop being cruel."

Was she aware of who she was talking to?

"Besides," his mother continued. "Have you had word from John that he definitely won't be back this Christmas?"

"No." The word slipped out before he could help it. The desperate longing that John would turn up again out of the blue.

"So the pair of you may turn up on my doorstep again?"

Despite himself, Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips from the memory.

* * *

**24th December 2004**

"You can't pick the locks?" John asked blankly.

Glaring at the key hole, Sherlock turned. "I was hardly expecting the need to break into my own flat. And the fact that I need tools proves to me that I was correct about this type of lock being-"

John kissed him.

"-the one to use," Sherlock finished when John pulled away. "And I do not appreciate you attempting to silence me with physical affection."

"Was just overcome," John sat back on his heels with an easy grin. "You have no idea how good you look talking about lock picking."

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered, not entirely sure how to deal with the bubbling warmth that lingered in his stomach. "You could have told me you were coming."

"And miss out on surprising you?" John gave him a look. "Had to be done."

They were sat on the floor by Sherlock's door, John's bag dumped in the corner and Sherlock wearing one of his jumpers to protect against the cold.

"Does your mum have a key?" John asked.

"No." Why on earth would she? The point was to keep her out, not invite her in.

"Does anyone have a key?"

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. "No. I…I simply need lock picking tools."

"Okay…who has those then?"

Ah.

* * *

**21****st**** December 2006**

John frowned at the chart and then at Robin.

"How are you feeling?"

"Hot," Robin sighed, shifting in the bed. "Been sick a few times."

"Hm," John studied the read out from the machine.

"I'll still be able to go home , right?"

"Getting used to the idea now?" John asked.

Nodding, Robin shrugged. "Haven't been home for a while, I was thinking it would be nice…" Robin swallowed and looked away. "Think someone up there hates me at the moment."

"It's a fever," John stepped back. "We'll get it sorted by the time the flight leaves."

"Promise?" Robin asked.

No. "I'll do my best," John clapped him on the shoulder. "I can promise you that."

Robin nodded, looking a little disappointed at John's side-stepping. "I even miss the arguments," he said, with all the nostalgia of one who hadn't experienced a family argument in a good few years.

* * *

**22****nd**** December 2003**

"John!"

God almighty, kill him now.

His mother flapped into the room looking as if she were dressed for a funeral.

"My poor boy," she said, walking over to him. "How are you feeling?"

"I…" John glimpsed the grey haired man behind her who lurked awkwardly in the doorway. "You must be Phil."

Phil nodded and stepped in, still looking deeply uncomfortable.

"Where is he? That boyfriend of yours. It's his fault isn't it? Drugs-"

"Mum, someone stabbed me with a needle. Sherlock was no-where near-"

"But he's that sort isn't he? The sort that just walks into people's homes and tries to break up relationships."

John snuck a glance at Phil who was giving his mother a look that she was utterly ignoring. How Sherlock hadn't managed to break them up was beyond John. He'd heard the embellished tale from Harry, apparently their mother had screeched her version of the event down the phone at his sister who had found the whole matter hysterical, and the rather halted, matter of fact version from Sherlock who had clearly left a few things out.

"Mum-"

"And he's just left you here, abandoned like a poor defenceless puppy-"

What? How did that even work in her head?

"-left to fend for yourself-"

"I'm in a hospital!" John blinked at her. "I'm surrounded by doctors and nurses, what more do you want?"

"Well they aren't in here, you could have been dead and no-one would have known."

If only.

"Mum-"

"That family have probably paid everyone off, haven't they, to get their son off. My poor child is lying in a hospital bed and he's-"

"Mum!" John hissed, wincing.

Seeing his gaze was fixed elsewhere, his mother (probably annoyed the attention had been taken from her) turned to meet Violet Holmes' rather steely gaze.

* * *

**23****rd**** December 2006**

Still no John.

But then if John did manage to find a way back he wouldn't be back long. A day, two at the most.

God, he wanted a good murder. That was what he needed to distract him. An interesting one too, one that took more than a day to solve. The only problem was that at Christmas people tended to steer more towards crimes of passion rather than premeditated, deliciously complicated crimes.

Sherlock stared at his phone, willing Lestrade to ring.

Or, if he were wishing uselessly for things, for John to ring.

The phone lay quiet.

Then a text.

_Mother wants you home for Christmas. You are aware that by not going you are only making things worse for yourself next year as she will try to make up for it by calling you relentlessly. MH_

_Merely ensuring there is enough food to satisfy your mammoth appetite dear brother. SH_

_Ah yes. The few grains you eat a week would make such a difference. MH_

_I have no wish to sit with you and pretend. SH_

There was a silence as no witty retort came back. And with it, Sherlock felt a flicker of uncertainty.

Mycroft had taken Victor Trevor from him, removed the possibility of justice. He'd encouraged John to go into the army, to not be here-

Sherlock threw the phone across the room.

He wasn't pretending when John wasn't around.

* * *

**24****th**** December 2004**

His mother opened the door and stared at them. They must have made an odd sight in her defence. Sherlock was still in pyjama bottoms with one of John's jumpers while John had a large bag and was trying not to laugh.

And failing miserably.

"Come in," she gestured wildly at them. "Sherlock what are you wearing? You can't possibly think it's sensible to go out dressed like that."

John sniggered again and Sherlock threw him a filthy look. "I am collecting my tools," he announced haughtily. "You," he said, pointing at John. "Don't get any ideas. We are not staying."

His mother's face fell. "You're not?" she asked, planting a kiss on John's cheek as she greeted him. "Why not?"

John cleared his throat with great joy. "Your brilliant son locked himself out of his flat."

His mother looked torn between laughter and disbelief. "Can't you just…" She winced. "Do what you usually do?"

"I am not a magician," Sherlock snapped, having a sneaking suspicion this mishap might haunt him for a while. "I need tools."

His mother nodded, then froze. "Tools?" She questioned dangerously. "Sherlock Holmes, if you have been using my house to store your thieving equipment-"

"I'm moving them," Sherlock stomped up the stairs only to bump into Mycroft.

"How…delightful," Mycroft drawled, raising his chin to stare down at Sherlock.

He hated that extra inch.

Behind him John and his mother were talking, it appeared as though they were at the wrong angle to see Mycroft.

"Get out of the way," Sherlock sneered.

"John has returned then," Mycroft commented, not moving. He was annoyingly unmoveable at this weight.

"I'm sure observations like that are what keep our great nation afloat." Sherlock debated ducking under Mycroft's arm; wanting to get past but disliking the idea of appearing to bow to him.

"You could say thank you."

Sherlock raised his head, back straightening. "I beg your pardon?" he said quietly.

Mycroft sighed and looked to the side of the stairwell.

"Thank you?" Sherlock muttered in disbelief. "He wouldn't be out there if you hadn't meddled-"

"That is not why you refuse to speak to me," Mycroft looked back at him calmly. "What do you think it says about you Sherlock that you are more upset I wouldn't let you kill a man, than you are that I helped John go into the army?"

"It says you should be extremely careful," Sherlock stepped threateningly close to his brother.

There was a flicker of something in Mycroft's eyes. Sherlock stared at him, trying to work out what-

"Mycroft?" his mother called. "We have visitors." Clearly she was oblivious to their conversation. "You should say hello before Sherlock vanishes."

Mycroft shook his head, annoyance in his face. "You can't even pretend, for her?"

What was the point? It wasn't as if she wasn't aware of how bad things had got.

"Mycroft?" John's voice called.

John however, had no idea it was this bad.

Sherlock nodded minutely. "Dinner only," he said in a low voice.

A nod was given to him in return and Mycroft finally turned to the side to let Sherlock pass.

* * *

**24****th**** December 2006**

"His fever is too high."

John sighed and glanced over his shoulder at Robin who was lying in the bed, asleep. "It's a flight," John tried. "He'll be fine-"

"If his fever takes a turn there will be no-one to help him," his Captain argued. "He's got a medal coming his way. I can't say 'oops, sorry, sent him on a plane to get him home for Christmas and killed him'."

"Won't be good in the media," Sandy O'Hara pointed out, leaning against the wall, about to go on shift. "They'll love this – hero forced to stay in lonely hospital bed for Christmas."

"Well what do you suggest?" Captain Seawell asked as John looked back at them. "I think they'll have a bigger story if something goes wrong."

"Send someone with him," Sandy was avoiding looking at John. "A doctor. He can fly there, stop over and get a flight back."

Then Sandy flickered his eyes to John as Captain Seawell looked up at the ceiling with a sigh, and winked.

"You go," Captain Seawell pointed at John. "You look like a good lad. Media'll have a hard time twisting this."

"You sneaky git," John whispered as Seawell stomped off.

Sandy winked at him. "Home for Christmas eh? Jammy sod."

John laughed.

* * *

**22****nd**** December 2003**

"You must be _his_ mother," his mum said in a shockingly haughty tone to Violet.

Violet, with her youngest son's gaze, stared and flickered her eyes over John's mum. "I am," she said.

Then, to John's amusement, breezed past his mum as if utterly at home with the situation. "How are you feeling?" she asked calmly.

God, how to answer that. "Fine," John smiled tightly. Behind her his mum looked floored. "Is Sherlock here?"

"Arguing with the doctors." Violet poured some more water into John's glass. "Probably reminding three that he knows their deepest darkest secrets and hence you require pillows or something."

John grinned. "Um…" he winced spotting the look on his mother's face. "Violet, this is my mum Rebecca and her boyfriend, Phil," he said, pointing as best he could.

"Pleasure," Violet said, turning and using a voice that couldn't be faulted for its politeness.

His mum opened her mouth, and John could see the rant that was about to begin.

"Rebecca."

Just one word from Phil and his mother turned to look at him in surprise.

"We talked about this in the car," he said quietly. "It's lovely to finally meet you, Violet," he said, holding out his hand. "I've heard a lot about you," he added as Violet shook it.

His mum looked so annoyed that John braced himself for the self-indulgent-

"Yes," she appeared to be physically swallowing something back. "You have been wonderful to John."

Had he stepped into a parallel universe?

"It's just that boy of yours," his mother couldn't help adding.

Thankfully. John thought he might have had serious concerns about his mental health if she had resisted the urge.

"My son?" Violet replied in that same tone.

"Yes, it's his fault that John is here," his mother sniffed as if Sherlock were some nasty disease.

"Probably," Violet agreed mildly. "But life is funny isn't it? I do sometimes wonder where John would be if he hadn't met Sherlock."

His mother just looked confused at what had intended to be a pointed comment. "Why-"

"Incompetent morons," Sherlock announced, walking into the room without any hesitation or care. He instead made a beeline straight for John. "You'd be better off treating yourself."

"Really wouldn't be," John replied as Sherlock bent to kiss his forehead. "We've talked about that idea before," he scolded half-heartedly.

"When did the witch arrive?" Sherlock whispered against his ear.

"Five minutes ago?" John replied quietly. "And don't call her that."

"It rhymes," Sherlock pulled away and busied himself with John's chart that he must have stolen. Again.

"Sherlock," Violet scolded gently. "Manners."

"Good morning mother," Sherlock said with mock friendliness. "You are looking particularly fetching today."

Violet folded her arms and stared him down. It wasn't often John saw Sherlock buckle to anyone, but he seemed to falter slightly and sigh.

"I…hope you're both enjoying your visit," Sherlock said in the most awful attempt at being polite and vaguely looking in the correct direction for Phil and John's mum.

"Enjoying my visit?" his mother screech at him. "Enjoying it? Do you think this is funny?"

Sherlock glanced at John with disbelief. "It isn't even worth trying," he sulked.

"Are you saying my son isn't worth making the effort?"

Beyond Sherlock, Violet was pressing her lips together in a clear attempt to keep her temper. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, had never seemed to have picked that trick up.

"You wish to lecture me about making an effort with your son? He's been awake for days and you only now deign to show up-"

"I haven't put him in a hospital bed-"

"Neither did I."

"He nearly died because of you-"

"And where were you? Were you aware that he was in trouble? That we were having problems? That he's going into the army to-"

"What?" his mother turned her screeching to John. "You're doing what?"

John rubbed at his temple. "I-"

"What a wonderful mother you are, being so up to date on your son's life-"

"The army why are you-"

"Enough."

The new voice was Phil's and John nearly sagged against the pillow in relief that someone had said the word that had been bubbling at his lips.

"Outside, the pair of you."

Sherlock opened his mouth.

"Go," John and Violet said at almost the same time.

Seeming affronted, Sherlock stalked out with John's mum and Phil.

And John had no idea what the man said to them, or whether he was secretly some sort of voodoo witch doctor, but somehow they both came back in quiet and restrained. They even had a conversation about the weather, despite Sherlock mouthing to John that he was owed for it.

His mother was dating a sorcerer. She had to be.

* * *

**25****th**** December 2006**

No John.

Sherlock stared moodily at the wall, hating how quiet it was.

Just like last year.

No, worse than last year. Last year John had phoned him, texted him to let him know. This silence was worrying.

His phone rang.

John.

"I am not pleased with you."

"Where are you?"

"At home." Sherlock frowned, "Where you should be."

"Can you get to Gatwick in half an hour?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I have two hours."

Sherlock scrambled for the door.

* * *

There, in an almost empty departure lounge, still in uniform, was John.

Tanned, even fitter than usual and with a rather calm air to him as he read a newspaper with actual interest rather than his usual method of just scanning the sports.

Sherlock was next to him without conscious thought and grabbed at him, burying his head into John's throat to smell him. Arms quickly came up to wrap around him.

"You couldn't have phoned from the plane?" Sherlock complained.

John shook his head, "The second I could." He clutched at Sherlock harder. "God I missed you."

Sherlock just nodded. Then rearranged them so that John was against his shoulder and he could curl around his partner slightly.

"You weren't at your mum's?" John asked tracing Sherlock's fingers.

"No."

John sighed. "You should go Sherlock, just because I'm not around or might not be home…I don't want you alone."

Then stop leaving.

But Sherlock tightened his arms around John. "I prefer being alone. Or with you. Not with people. Besides, I was hoping for a good murder."

"Sorry to disappoint," John smiled fondly.

"Hardly," Sherlock breathed him in. "This is better than a murder."

Sniggering, John lifted his head to kiss him. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

An hour and a half.

Which turned out to be seven hours when the plane was mysteriously delayed.

* * *

_Thank you. SH_

_Happy Christmas brother. MH_

* * *

Next Chapter:

**Ensure**** it:** All John wants to do is go home and sleep. Instead Sherlock's dragging him around the airport muttering something about a working holiday to Florida...


	6. Ensure it

Hello All, apologies for once again being quiet this week. I'm trying to cram in as many hours as possible and for some god unknown reason took on a primary school this week! Thank you so much for all the reviews - they are always wonderful to receive and read.

* * *

Ensure it

It was good to be going home. Out the window John could see rain and damp greenness that made him smile despite how tired he was.

Shower, shag, Chinese, bed.

Sherlock was a wonderfully appreciated sight as John stepped out. He was getting better at meeting at the airport – so many times John had walked out at the start and Sherlock had nodded awkwardly and just kept 'accidently' brushing his hand against John's back, arm, arse, any available extremity. Despite not being one for big, genuine scenes of affection, Sherlock had steadily improved over the years.

As Sherlock pulled him into a hug John pushed his head under Sherlock's neck, leaning on him and breathing him in. Over Sherlock's shoulder he could see a few disapproving and startled looks.

Odd. Usually when Sherlock noticed that he shoved his tongue down John's throat just to make a point.

Maybe he was maturing.

Smiling, John turned his face into soft skin and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's throat. "Missed you," he murmured.

Sherlock's fingers tightened around his back, gripping at his clothes as he nodded.

The tit.

John pulled away and, keeping hold of Sherlock's hand, started to walk to the baggage claim.

Sherlock however, refused to budge and when John turned in confusion, pulled him in a different direction.

"Not shagging in the toilets," John warned him. "Too tired to shag anywhere but in bed." Sherlock kept dragging him. "You'd better do all the work," John sighed eventually. "And keep me in the manner I've grown accustomed to when I get kicked out of the army for it." He tried to glare at Sherlock. "I thought we were clear on the whole 'no public indecency while in uniform'?"

There was a pause and Sherlock turned looking worriedly thoughtful.

"No," John murmured. "No getting us arrested just so I stay."

Ten seconds passed before Sherlock shot him a peeved look and then started herding John again.

* * *

The second he spotted the cap and uniform he saluted and ignored the amused look on Sherlock's face.

"Second Lieutenant Watson," the Major said, "Sign off duty."

John stared at the log book, then at the Major, then at Sherlock. "What have you done?" he asked suspiciously.

The innocent look Sherlock shot him looked worryingly realistic. Had it been painted on anyone's face but Sherlock's John may have believed him. "Obey the Major, John."

Glaring, John leaned over and signed his name on the sheet.

* * *

Despite being out of uniform after being bundled into the toilets, they still weren't out of the airport.

"Are you a fugitive or something?" John asked as Sherlock pulled at him again. "At this point I'm in danger of turning you in myself just to get a bed."

"And people say I'm the unsentimental one."

"You're rubbing off on me."

"Clearly. Here," Sherlock handed him some pieces of card. "Hold."

Obediently John 'held' as Sherlock dragged them up to a desk. Half asleep he stared down at the cards.

No, the tickets.

Tickets.

To Florida.

What?

"Why are we going to Florida?" John demanded once Sherlock had finished talking to the woman.

"Work," Sherlock replied sounding bored as he steered them once again through the airport.

"Work?"

"I'll be working, _you_ can have a holiday."

John started at him, "You…I can have a holiday?"

"Yes. Sit at the beach, drink cocktails. Whatever it is people do on holiday."

The shower was becoming a distant dream. "Did you not think it might be an idea to…I don't know…ask?"

"I was given to understand that surprises are seen to be romantic."

"Surprise! You don't get to go home, have a shower and a Chinese. Instead you get to go on a business trip-" John broke off suddenly. "Wait."

"Yes?"

John stared at Sherlock, "First class lounge?"

"Yes?" Sherlock eyed him warily.

Softening slightly, John looked at the door and then at Sherlock. "Do they have beds in there?"

* * *

The sheets smelled unfamiliar, it was bloody hot and there was an empty place next to him.

John despised waking up in a double bed alone. But he was halfway comfortable and sure as fuck wasn't moving. Instead he patted the space next to him to make sure it really was empty. Just as he started to accept that Sherlock had indeed gone, a delicious hand stroked down his back, taking the covers with it.

"Have to be quick," John muttered into the pillow. "My boyfriend could come back any moment."

"Partner," Sherlock shifted, "You are deliberately trying to annoy me." But, even as he said it, his hand remained soothing and relaxing as it stroked patterns into John's back. "No war wounds?" he asked, yanking the covers completely off John and moving his hands down his legs.

"Not a horse," John complained.

The hands on him froze. "Why would you be?"

"Inspecting me," John yawned. "G'way."

"I will have to. I am meeting my client soon." Despite his words Sherlock's hands were becoming firmer, more tempting.

"T's okay," John said. "Sleep."

Behind him he could feel Sherlock rumble in laughter and lean forward to press a kiss to his head. "I unpacked the bag I brought for you."

"Mm," John shifted, enjoying the feel of Sherlock against him. "Stay."

"I'll be back before you wake up."

Now John did turn, wriggling around underneath Sherlock to stare up at him. "Liar," he said. "You'll get caught up and be in a shoot-out before midday."

Sherlock reached over and twisted the clock to meet John's gaze.

1.17pm.

"Still say you could manage it," John muttered.

* * *

It was impossible to go back to sleep. In the end John dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, and then stared at the massive bath with some trepidation.

Shower. Easier.

Downstairs, lunch had been served at a buffet and John wolfed down thirds by the end. Wandering around John explored the hotel.

And was bored stiff within half an hour. There was no way he could take days of this without Sherlock. In the end he went back to the room and pulled out a book that Sherlock had brought with him.

"You'll lose that tan if you keep hiding in here," Sherlock said as he closed the door behind him.

John turned the book cover towards Sherlock, "Crime thriller?" he asked, amused.

But Sherlock had already disappeared and moments later John heard the bathroom door shut, then silence. A quick glance at the clock allowed John to take the time.

Exactly fifteen minutes later he knocked on the door gently and pushed it open.

Sherlock stood over the sink, clutching at it with white knuckled hands, head bowed. He didn't even glance when John stepped in. Accepting that Sherlock was still turning it all over in his head, John started to fiddle with the bath, pouring the water in and eying up the bottles on the shelf.

Dragging his hand through the water John let himself drift off a little as he focussed on keeping the water at a pleasant temperature. He almost jumped when Sherlock's hand appeared next to his.

Almost immediately after, Sherlock's head rested on John's shoulder from behind, pressing into the crook of his neck as Sherlock placed a kiss to his skin. A long, deep one that made John frown.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Difficult case?"

"No," Sherlock pulled back, sitting on his heels. "Confusing."

John hadn't been aware that word was in Sherlock's vocabulary. Reaching over he twisted the taps and stopped the water, turning to sit with his back to the bath to face Sherlock. "How come?"

But Sherlock shook his head, eyes lost in thought. "The water," he said, nodding his head at the taps.

John looked over his shoulder, "You want the bath?" he asked. "I was fiddling."

Sherlock shifted until he was sat crossed legged. "You have it."

"Uh-"

"Please."

John stared at him then stood, awkward and unsure. Sherlock's eyes remained trained on him and after another moment's hesitation, reached and put the taps on again. Feeling hyperaware of Sherlock's eyes on him he made a few stilted motions.

For fuck sakes it was a bath, he'd been naked in front of Sherlock before.

* * *

Naked and wet, John lay in the bath, not really sure why people bothered. What were you meant to do when in a bath?

"So…" he drummed his fingers on the side, "This helping?"

"No," Sherlock leaned his head back against the tiles. "It doesn't…I have facts and evidence and it doesn't make sense."

It was on the tip of John's tongue to question why he'd had to climb in a bath but the utterly lost expression on Sherlock's face made him sigh. "Come here," he said.

Obediently, Sherlock made his way over and knelt by the bath at John's head. The grey gaze was fixated upon John's upper arm. Slowly Sherlock braced his arm on the edge of the bath and trailed his fingers over the scars and then down to a few spotted bruises from various day to day activities.

"The thought of you in pain or scared is repulsive," Sherlock said suddenly, swallowing as he rested his chin on his arm.

"Sherlock-"

"I don't understand it. How can…he loves his wife. How can he-" Sherlock cut himself off, looking annoyed as his words.

"The client?" John asked carefully, watching Sherlock's face.

"He beats her," Sherlock stared with unseeing eyes. "I can see it. And she…she was in love with him, she was scared of him. Now she's…but he loves her." With an odd childlike quality, Sherlock raised his eyes to John. "He beats her and he loves her. One of those observations must be wrong, it doesn't make sense."

John sighed and sat up, twisting to face Sherlock who simply watched him. "It's never that simple," he said, holding onto his knees. "You know that."

"You were uncomfortable," Sherlock said. "Unsure when I asked you to get into the bath. I saw it in your eyes. Why would anyone deliberately want to make someone they love feel like that, it's horrifically-" he looked past John to the tiles, lips pinched as he frowned in thought.

John stared down at the bath water and pulled his knees in a little tighter. "Did I ever tell you about my step-dad? The guy in between my dad and Phil?"

"Homophobic, abusive towards Harry and on occasion you, when you tried to stop him."

"He hit my mum," John watched Sherlock blink in surprise. "He used to say he was helping her. Correcting her as if she were some naughty child. It was after my dad died, after Harry and I went back to live with her. That year was…" he took a deep breath, "Hard," he settled on the word, not really sure what else to use. "But when she did as he wanted or during the good months they were so…together. It's funny what lies you can tell yourself."

"I missed that," Sherlock frowned.

"She's better with Phil," John admitted. "It's like she's finding herself again. But he changed her, made her into his ideal. It's not right but it happens. And people," John smiled, "People can be fucking stupid when they love someone."

"You were disappointed in her," Sherlock said after a pause. "You've always said that she divorced him after your father died and she regained custody of you and Harry."

"I…" John sighed and tilted his head. "I guess I get it a bit better now. You can love someone, find it impossible not to be with them and yet you can be in situations that tell you it isn't enough. You have to choose whether to ignore everything and trust it will work out or to leave."

Something passed over Sherlock's face and he looked away. "Apparently so," he muttered.

Not at all sure how to respond to that, John sighed. "I didn't leave you," he said eventually. "I thought about it. I thought that I needed something outside of you to avoid getting pulled in and I damn well thought I had to stop enabling you but I didn't leave you. I was trying to leave the situation."

Sherlock nodded, though John wasn't entirely sure he was convinced.

"So what's the case?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, snapping back to life again. "He seems to have misunderstood my job description. He wants me to help him during a murder investigation, to prove he's innocent."

"What's wrong with that?" John asked.

"He's guilty." Sherlock stood suddenly, "He believes he can buy his way out of the enquiry. As if I spend my time suggesting ways to commit a crime and get away with it."

"You'll have to turn him down," John said, watching Sherlock pace.

"He's paying for this," Sherlock waved a hand.

"Can't we just leave?" John asked, sure that he was missing something.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Why?"

"You're on holiday."

John closed his eyes, wincing and then opened them to stare at the taps furiously, shaking his head. "Sherlock…go and pack," he muttered, standing up. "Don't be such a complete idiot."

"But-"

"Now," John stepped out of the bath, "Or I will do the packing and conveniently forget every screamed lecture about organisational skill and mess up your things."

"You don't like the hotel," Sherlock looked about as if the walls would suddenly paint the reasons upon themselves.

"No," John picked up a towel and started to dry off. "Does this look like my sort of place?"

"I was told it is relaxing."

"I'm dating you, I chose to go into the army and be a doctor," John stared at him, "There's relaxing and being bored senseless."

Sherlock blinked and then a pleased look crossed his face. In an instant he was in front of John and pulling him into a fierce, desperate kiss.

"Though," John said pulling away breathlessly, "it'd be bloody rude not to christen the room before we left."

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's. "Indeed."

* * *

By the time they were at some cheap motel for the night, Sherlock had decided to be insulted by Mr Thomas Hudson and kept muttering odd phrases under his breath. Most of them scoffed huffs about the mistake over the job description and his professional pride.

"So?" John asked after inspecting the bathroom and wondering exactly what it was that was wrong with him that he found a tiny, dingy, grotty bathroom to be less of a trial than the one at the posh hotel. "What do you want to do?"

"Ruin him."

"And for dinner?"

Sherlock had the expression he usually wore when suddenly jolted back down to earth. "Dinner? You ate half the buffet at lunch."

"And then burned it all off twice this afternoon," John grinned ruefully. "If I get something will you pick at it?"

"I do not pick at things," Sherlock had obviously dismissed the conversation as useless in his mind and was now only half focussing on it. "Eat what you like."

Nodding, John sat on the bed next to Sherlock, "Was it bad?"

"The food?"

Grinning in amusement into Sherlock's shoulder, John shook his head, "No." The smile fell quickly as he remembered the bewildered expression on Sherlock's face earlier. "I meant the beating," he said, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist. "Was it really bad?"

"She was functioning."

John waited.

"She wasn't afraid," Sherlock tilted his head. "That's unusual, correct? People in that situation are usually afraid. She used to be and he isn't sure how to deal with this now and so he's getting worse."

"Is…does she see a doctor?"

"No," Sherlock stared at the wall. "No…Oh! You're a doctor."

Any other time John would have teased him for the obviousness of his comment. Instead he just shifted so he was sitting behind Sherlock. "If you want me to take a look at her I can. I'll have to be careful about what I say."

"Why?"

"Lawsuits," John traced some words into Sherlock's back. "The most dangerous predator of the modern doctor." He finished the 'U' and shrugged, "Besides, she may not want to seek any form of medical attention."

"Do they teach you how to deal with this?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh, in a professional setting," John drew a happy face and felt Sherlock roll his eyes. "Offer's there for you and her if you want it."

"I have to go out," Sherlock stood. "There are people I need to talk to."

"Want company?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Can you do an American accent?"

A flash of the Dave Miller's face as John had tried to do a passable imitation of his accent crossed John's mind. "Well-"

"No."

Something to work on then. John flopped down on the bed and reached for the book. As much as he hated to admit it, it was a bloody good read.

"You too."

"Huh?"

"What you," Sherlock waved his fingers. "I love you too."

"Dinner will be in the fridge," John said, settling back and then winced. "God, I sound like your bloody wife."

"House husband," Sherlock corrected.

"Don't push it."

* * *

John woke to Sherlock sliding into bed and folding around him.

"Not good?" he asked half asleep.

"Not for him," Sherlock replied.

John turned his head, lips finding Sherlock's with ease. But, to his surprise, Sherlock pulled back soon after and settled back behind John, pulling him close again.

"Can I…" John shifted on the pillow, much more awake suddenly as he stared at the stained wall. "Can I ask a question that's going to sound really bad?"

Sherlock nodded against his nape.

"What is it that bothers you so much?" John asked, "I mean you seem so shaken by this. You've dealt with domestic abuse before, surely."

"With people who did not love," Sherlock replied. "Who viewed their other half as property or…but this. I cannot understand it. I…I look at you, at how different you are now and I want to see how different you will be in ten years' time because…because you always surprise me. I do not understand how you can love someone and want to force them into something they wouldn't naturally do. It defies the point." John felt a long breath against his neck. "How are you so calm about it?"

"Not calm," John sighed, "More…desensitised I suppose."

Sherlock was silent. Too silent and he suddenly seemed taut as a bow.

"What?" John turned to him, shuffling down so they lay face to face. But Sherlock shifted so he lay on his back and pulled John towards him and onto Sherlock's shoulder. The arms around John were tight and Sherlock's thumb smoothed the skin of his back in a controlled pattern.

Just as John was drifting off to sleep, Sherlock turned his head and placed a deep kiss to his hair.

If Sherlock didn't want to talk about it that was fine. John pulled back a little to let Sherlock know he was still awake, still willing to listen but Sherlock just nodded.

Knowing that no matter what he did Sherlock would likely stay awake all night, John lowered his head again and closed his eyes.

* * *

Mrs Hudson was possibly the strangest woman he'd ever met.

If it weren't for Sherlock, John would probably have never realised she was in such a relationship. She accepted the cup of tea he made and chattered on to him about how to get the stains out of the table as if perfectly comfortable with the situation.

"He's not one for sitting down and talking is he?" she asked as Sherlock vanished out the door. "He and my husband have nearly worn out my downstairs carpet with their pacing."

John smiled, "Depends on his mood. Sometimes he's like a sloth if you can believe it."

Mrs Hudson looked a little doubtful at the idea. "So Sherlock said you're a doctor."

"Yeah, in the army," John wrapped his fingers around the mug, trying to warm them up to a pleasant temperature. "Seen things you can't imagine," he said with a wink. "You wouldn't believe what some of them get up to in their spare time."

"He's proud of you," Mrs Hudson said with a pleased tone, "The moment he mentioned your name it brightened him up. He's been so serious."

"He's worried," John said meeting her gaze. "And he isn't usually that worried about people he's just met."

"Bruises," Mrs Hudson lifted her chin, head high. "I don't need a doctor just yet."

"Why do you stay?" John asked carefully.

Mrs Hudson smiled at him, "It isn't very nice," she said seriously, though the smile remained, a little rueful now. "But I gave him twenty years of my life. I saved and scrimped on things, I took care of our finances, I worked to make the move possible. We shared a life and created one together."

"You feel like you owe him?"

"No, he owes me."

John couldn't help the surprised croak of laughter, "I'm sorry?"

"I could testify against him dear. There are days when I would do it gladly, but I know Thomas. He's a petty little child at times." John stared, amazed as she tutted over that. "He'd rob me of whatever he could. If he's proved guilty and sentenced to death row I'll keep what I worked for," she stirred her tea. "And it's enough to buy myself a new life again, a good one this time, one that I want."

There was a nagging voice telling him to shut his mouth but his jaw remained gaping all the same. "Oh," he sat back. "I see."

"I did love him once." Mrs Hudson took a sad sigh, "But…I gave him everything. And then one day we were watching the television and he wouldn't let me watch my soap opera. He wanted to watch sports. I just looked at him and thought 'I don't want you anymore'."

John wasn't sure whether he should be bowing to her mind or calling a professional.

"Like you and Sherlock," she said, clearly seeing how thrown he was. "You travel all around the world and he stays in London helping the police. Both independent people who chose to spend their time with each other because you're in love, because it makes you happy. If one of you gave it all up for the other, gave everything you have to live in the shadow of the other, you'd be miserable. You start tearing each other apart because you both know the mistake that was made and you can't go back," she added sincerely as if John might have been confused about the whole possibility of time travel. "And you've gone too far to stop."

John nodded dimly.

"I've startled you," she frowned. "You weren't expecting that."

"No," John cleared his throat, annoyed when the word came out dry. "No, I just…I think I can see why Sherlock likes you."

Mrs Hudson looked pleased. "He's a lovely boy."

John laughed, "You wouldn't say that if you lived with him."

* * *

He asked her a few times if she wanted him to take a look, just to ensure her own piece of mind but she laughed him off, telling him she knew a bruise when she saw one and as tempting as it was to have a lovely young man want to get her out of her blouse she would rather wait 'till she met one otherwise inclined.

He'd laughed and in the end gave in to her.

Completely.

Still, it had been strange to wave her off, to send her home again. Wrong.

So wrong.

* * *

"Second Lieutenant Watson?"

John froze as he answered the phone. "Sir."

"We need to cut your leave short. Report in Wednesday 0900 at Camp Bastion."

"Yes sir."

* * *

By John's calculations (and Sherlock's lap top) that meant he had ten hours before he had to leave to get back to England, pick up his things and get on a plane.

And Sherlock's bloody phone was off.

* * *

Sherlock stormed in four hours later as if about to do battle with the devil himself.

"Sherlock-"

"He threw her down the stairs," Sherlock was almost shaking with agitation. "He threw her down the stairs and then was upset by her reaction in the hospital. How-" he broke off shaking his head.

Oh god.

John glanced at the phone, knowing before the thought even crossed his mind that he wouldn't be able to alter the report in time. "Is she-"

"She broke her hip," Sherlock snarled. "I swear he-" Sherlock broke off. "Why are your bags packed?"

How the hell he knew that John had no idea, especially as his packed bag was in the cupboard. "I…they called-"

"No," Sherlock drew himself up. "No, ten days. We have ten days-"

"Sherlock," John sighed, feeling suddenly very old. "Don't do this."

"When do you leave?"

John glanced at the clock. "Uh-"

"Hours?" Sherlock breathed in horror.

John nodded, "I need to go home and-"

"Mycroft can sort that out. How long then?"

"I…" John restrained the urge to feel annoyed at the sudden take-over of his plans, especially as it was saving him travel time. "I'll check," he conceded.

"Do so," Sherlock snapped.

It was strange. John could take being ordered about from dawn 'till dusk but this, the tone, the attitude, the tilt of the head made him see red.

"I'm sorry?" John breathed, folding his arms. "Do I look like your slave?"

"You're not supposed to leave now," Sherlock said with the attitude of a sulking four year old denied chocolate. "You were meant to stay."

"It's my job-"

"And this is mine," Sherlock pointed at him. "I am not dropping my life to spend time with you when you deign to appear."

"Did I ask you to?" John could feel his temper at the edge. "Do I ever ask you to?"

"No." Sherlock pulled back in every sense of the word. "No, clearly it doesn't bother you that much."

And with that he whirled on his heel and left.

* * *

_Your luggage will meet you there. MH_

_Thank you, couldn't use your powers on your brother could you?_

_I fear, as always, it would be a waste of time. MH_

* * *

Sherlock stood, staring down over the bridge, his arms crossed and resting on the ledge. Slowly, John approached him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," John murmured. "I hate leaving you like this, I hate that I can't help Mrs Hudson, and I hate that we barely got to spend any time together."

Sherlock just nodded.

"Sherlock-"

"It's done." Sherlock stood and pulled away. "How long do we have?"

"Three hours."

* * *

It was different. Sherlock curled around him as if he could physically entwine them together and keep John in him forever. More often than not John found himself pulled down for a kiss by the chain he kept around his neck.

"Not a leash," he teased as he panted against Sherlock's skin.

"I know."

* * *

Next Chapter: First one down


	7. First one down

Thank you again to those still following. You're all lovely for reading :)

* * *

**First one down**

Summary: Mike's the first one to take the plunge!

* * *

**June 2007**

"Must we do this?" Sherlock complained as they got out of the taxi. "I can think of better ways to spend our time than suffering through this inanity-"

"Wedding," John corrected closing the door.

"How is that different?" Sherlock asked, glaring at the church as if insulted. "How quaint," he added, mockingly.

It was like something from a calendar John decided. The pretty little church that seemed very Kirsty-like rose above the neatly trimmed bushes and light grey jagged graves and seemed very sweet against the blue sky.

"That's it, get it out of your system," John encouraged, nodding at Andy who looked relieved to see them.

"It's like the fucking twilight zone," Andy complained. "All I hear about is hair and dresses and shoes. Who gives that much of a fuck about shoes?" he asked, shaking his head.

Sherlock pulled a face as if about to face some grand torture. Andy nodded as if they'd shared a grand dialogue and then blinked at John. "Bloody hell mate, you've got a great bloody tan!" he shook his head, "I feel like a sodding milk bottle standing next to you."

"Stand next to Sherlock then," John suggested, grinning as Andy gave him a clap on the back. "I heard you got a piece in the guardian."

"Don't condemn him for that John, there is still time for him to become a proper journalist."

"Fuck you too," Andy said good naturedly. "Just 'cause you can't promote yourself."

"Don't give him ideas," John warned when Sherlock looked thoughtful.

"Army's still agreeing with you then?" Andy asked as they walked up the path to the church.

"Love it," John said honestly and then stopped and glared at Sherlock who had decided to divert to the gravestones. "What are you doing?"

"Observing," Sherlock's eyes darted from grave to grave.

Clearly he was going to be a baby about this. "Get us a seat would you?" John asked Andy.

Andy nodded, "At the back, easy to slip away?"

"That would be preferable," Sherlock agreed.

John looked between the two of them, a slight wave of nervousness starting to form. They were spending far too much time together for the health of the inhabitants of London.

"I know," John said as Andy slipped away, "That you are here under great duress, that I am some evil bastard for forcing you to come here. But please, come inside."

Sherlock's light eyes lifted to John's. "Why?" Sherlock asked challengingly.

"Because I…it's Mike!" John stepped closer, "I want to see him happy. He saved my life."

"Yes and if he's ever murdered I will ensure the killer is convicted," Sherlock said frankly. "I do not understand the interest people have in watching two people utter their undying devotion to each other."

"Shits and giggles?"

Sherlock smiled, clearly reluctant to do so.

"Seriously," John stepped forward and held out his hand. "He wants us there so we watch. He's taking the plunge so we have to be nice to him today."

"I do not do 'nice'," Sherlock spat the word out as if it were rude.

John leaned against the headstone, "Try," he suggested, "Think of it was an exercise in acting for your cases."

With a sneer Sherlock stepped forward and took a deep breath. Instantly there was an overly fake smile on his face.

"Yeah, don't go overboard, this is Mike," John pointed out. "He'll probably think you're on crack again."

The smile fell into something far more natural as Sherlock shoved at him. "Idiot."

* * *

Inside they found Andy and sat in the pews, shifting on the uncomfortable seats.

"Prime seats," Andy murmured. "Not sure why they weren't already taken," he said with what worryingly sounded like genuine confusion.

"Because people are stupid," Sherlock declared loudly.

The woman in front of John turned to glare at them. John nodded at her with what he hoped was an apologetic smile. Her gaze lingered in disapproval as she glanced at both Andy and Sherlock on either side of John. The fact that both of them remained oblivious didn't help.

"Inside voice, Sherlock," John said between his teeth.

"Mm," Sherlock was looking around, "I can see why I deleted the inside of a church."

Of course he had.

At the front Mike stood with his best man. Paul stood up there as well. Spotting them he grinned and gave a thumbs up.

John pointed to either side of him and then buried his head in his hands.

"Subtle," Sherlock sat back, flicking through the mini bible and pausing every so often as Paul laughed and turned to Mike.

"What did I do?" Andy complained.

John was spared from finding a diplomatic answer as the music suddenly started up.

"Will that continue through the entire ceremony?" Sherlock questioned looking pained.

"It's to signal the bride's coming."

"She gets theme music?"

Andy sniggered forcing John to turn. "Do not encourage him," John said sternly.

The doors opened and a little girl walked in. Sherlock's eyes actually narrowed in confusion.

"It's the flower girl," John hissed.

Kirsty came in behind on her dad's arm. Sherlock's face twisted and he tilted his head to the side while Andy hissed.

"Not a word," John snapped at the pair of them under his breath, "I swear to god I will batter the pair of you."

Kirsty passed by, looking over the moon. At the alter Mike looked utterly enchanted as he watched his wife to be walking towards him.

"I'm so seeing the benefits of being gay," Andy muttered as the train swished past.

Sherlock was still staring as if trying to process what he was seeing.

"You've clearly never seen Gay Alf in a theatrical mood," John muttered, not at all sure why someone would choose to wear that much fabric.

Or that many flowers.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today-"

Next to him Sherlock stiffened as if suddenly horrified. "How long does this last for?" he asked. "Everyone is starting to settle and that man over there is steeling himself. You did not mention this when you forced me to come!"

The row in front of them turned, as did a few beyond.

"Inside voice," John said as he slid down the seat.

* * *

"John," Mike shook his hand looking deliriously happy. "I'm married," he added as if John might have missed that fact.

"I saw," For over an hour he had seen. "And sorry about Sherlock."

"Why, what did he do?" Mike looked panicked.

Fuck, if he hadn't noticed then John wasn't making a point of it. "Uh…just in advance. Seems safe."

Mike just grinned, still looking dazed.

Nutter.

* * *

"A line up?" Andy whined, "I'm…oh, no," he grabbed at his ankle, "Shoot, I broke my leg. I'll just sit in the chair with a beer and wait for you all."

"A line up?" Sherlock asked.

"It's where you greet the wedding party, one by one," John explained.

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he turned to the line.

"I would have thought that would bore him senseless," Andy shrugged and then lifted his foot onto the chair. "Does it look like my leg's broken?"

"No," John said frankly. "I could break it for you, then it would look broken." He sat down at his seat, "So no new girl?"

"I've been told that women get expectations when they watch weddings," Andy reached over to lift a drink off of the trays and passed one to John. "You drinking?"

John nodded and took the glass. "Still avoiding serious relationships like the plague?"

"Well, we can't all find an insane genius to shag on and off for six years."

"It's not been six years," John protested, "We weren't shagging at the start."

Andy just raised an eyebrow, "Still longer than these two," he said gesturing to the room.

"Don't," John shuddered, "Can you imagine Sherlock married?" he asked. "I barely got him in the church to watch one."

Andy laughed, "Maybe he'd write his own vows."

John sniggered, "Endless lines of poetry and romance," he grinned and sat back.

Wait.

"Have I just let him go up to eleven people he doesn't really know with a limited time frame?"

Andy mulled it over, "Yeah…sucks to be you."

John weighed it up, "Ack, screw it, they're married now. What harm can he do?"

Andy stared at him.

"Yeah," John stood, "How do I look?"

"Terribly apologetic," Andy toasted him.

* * *

"But the bridesmaid is in love with the sister of the bride!" Sherlock complained as John shepherded him back to the table. "I wanted to see if the bride-"

"Kirsty-"

"-knows." Sherlock slunk down into his seat. "It was an interesting challenge, why did you let him ruin it?" he asked Andy.

Andy shrugged with complete disinterest. "There was a free drink."

* * *

"I'm so sorry, I'll take full responsibility," Mike said as he hurried over to John.

Huh?

"Are we playing a game?" John asked, confused, "Are you pretending to be me?"

"Slight oversight on the seating plan," Mike explained, swallowing nervously.

"Oh no, have you sat him at another table?" John asked woodenly, "However will I cope? Oh well, good luck to whoever-"

"No," Mike opened his mouth.

"Oh Christ Mike, if you've put him and Andy on the same table-"

Mike faltered, "Okay, I have to apologise for two things."

Fantastic. John pinched at the bridge of his nose, "Out of curiosity Mike, are you punishing me for something?"

"You're in the army, you deal with battles."

It took everything John had not to laugh or roll his eyes, "Battles? Oh yeah, great with a good battle me. Love saddling up the horse and charging in with the Light Brigade."

"I put a girl on your table."

"Mike," John clenched his hands, "I assume you're trying to tell me something and not assuming that just because I shag Sherlock I shun every woman."

"She works at the morgue."

"Oh…" John stared at him, "You bastard."

"Full responsibility."

Letting out a long breath John straightened his back, pushing his shoulders down. "So, during dinner, I have to endure Andy swearing like I'm at work and talking about sex like…I'm at work, Sherlock being a brat, Sherlock deducing everyone at the table and then what I have no doubt will be a long discussion about cadavers?"

Mike let out a sigh, "Yeah…but I'd also keep the 'work' talk to a minimum because Kirsty's dad marched in protest with quite a few of his friends. Against the war."

John closed his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. "Don't take this the wrong way Mike but I am never attending another one of your weddings."

* * *

"You work at a morgue."

Well, the vain and desperate hope that Sherlock wouldn't realise had lasted all of ten seconds after they sat down at the table.

The girl, a nervous looking sweet faced girl, smiled, seeming enchanted by Sherlock. "Yes," she said nodding happily. "I started a few months ago. At first it was strange but then you get used to seeing people's ribs cracked open in an autopsy. You get the urge for coffee at the strangest time."

Mr Parry, a man who had been chatting with Kirsty's dad earlier looked horrified. "Some respect wouldn't go amiss."

The girl, who had clearly meant no offence suddenly looked mortified, "Oh, well, of course, I just meant-"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, poking at his melon with a fork as if it were diseased. "They're dead and the living need to drink."

"That's a terrible thing to say," Mrs Parry objected.

"Why?" Sherlock looked at John, seeming a little baffled, "Sentiment?"

John nodded, "Something like that."

Sherlock nodded as if John had just suggested a new tube route to get home, looking as if he were contemplating the information.

"And what to you do?" Mr Parry asked.

"Consulting detective," Sherlock replied absently.

"All these new names," Mr Parry huffed, "Time was you called a bin-man a bin-man. Now he's a refuse collector. It's ridiculous. You," he pointed to John. "What ridiculous new-fangled name do you have?"

"PQO Lieutenant," John placed his water on the table carefully. "Or Doctor Watson, I guess it depends on which day of the week."

"You're in the army?"

Sherlock's head snapped to Mr Parry dangerously. Under the table John dug his fingers into his partner's thigh. "Yes," John said politely. "And Andy's a journalist, so I'm afraid there are quite a few traditional jobs at the table."

Mr Parry opened his mouth and next to him John could feel Sherlock tense as if to launch himself verbally at Mr Parry.

"Well they have to change," Andy took a neat sip, "can't call a bin-man a bin-man when it could be a woman or a person who doesn't want to identify with a gender."

What the hell?

As one both Sherlock and John turned to Andy.

"What?" Andy glared at them, "I can be professional. I write for a living, I passed uni. Fuck off."

"It's political correctness gone-"

"Finish that dull sentence and I will insist we discuss your most recent trip to Cornwall…or was it Devon?" Sherlock glared.

Mr Parry paled and stared at Sherlock in horror while next to him his wife looked utterly baffled.

"Now," Sherlock pushed away the untouched melon. "How many murders come to you in a month?"

"Oh," the girl squeaked at the sudden return of the conversation. "Um…some."

"Specifically," Sherlock said pressing his hands together. "I require quantitative data."

The bowl scrapped on the table as John pushed it back to Sherlock. "You require food."

Sherlock looked down at the bowl, "This is not food, this is plebeian. She is a chef isn't she?" he asked angling his head towards the head table and Kirsty. "Where does she work so I may strike it off my list."

"She didn't cook it!"

"No, she selected it and the caterers. Poor judgement would suggest that her own work is-"

John kicked him under the table, "Go back to talking about gunshot wounds."

"We weren't-" the girl started to correct, clearly trying to be helpful.

"Yes," Sherlock's eyes lit up, "How many of those do you get a month…what was your name?"

"Molly," she smiled hopefully.

Sherlock waited. "Well? Numbers!" he demanded.

"Oh," she nodded and started to rattle them off.

* * *

Back at the hotel that night Sherlock lay with his head on John's stomach, a bottle of wine in his hand.

"Why would anyone subject themselves to such an ordeal?" Sherlock asked, taking a swig and passing the bottle to John. "Paying to endure relatives for the day," he scoffed at the idea.

"They love each other," John took the bottle, his other hand carding through Sherlock's hair. "They wanted to show it to those they love."

"Then they are idiots if the Parrys are included in that category."

John leaned down to press a kiss to Sherlock's hair. "It's meant to be a way of distracting your parents, asking their friends to come."

"The obvious option would be to not invite them."

Laughing, John drank. The wine was light and fruity, refreshing. "Really?"

"Really. If we were to do it then I wouldn't invite Mycroft. Otherwise I'd end up inviting the diplomats of the world. Endlessly dull."

John paused and looked down. "What?"

"Mycroft, do keep up John. To keep him entertained would mean inviting his work and then he'd probably insist that all needed to be invited to ensure there was no slight. Before we knew it we'd have a bloody European delegation tucking into dinner. And they have ridiculously expensive taste."

"No…I meant-"

Sherlock turned in his lap. "Ah," he said frowning, "It was the marriage reference," he looked a little surprised. "You didn't think I would be interested in that? In a civil partnership?"

John shook his head, not too sure what to say.

"Is it not what you do when you wish to show the strength of your relationship?" Sherlock said rolling back over and holding out an imperious hand for the bottle. "Besides there are legal benefits which would be useful considering the lives we lead."

John nodded dimly as Sherlock traced a pattern on his thigh, relieved when Sherlock started discussing the various uses St Bart's mortuary could have and beyond grateful Sherlock was rather tipsy and distracted.

* * *

Next Chapter: Dead men and their tales - John and Sherlock both have very different ways of dealing with death.


	8. Dead men and their tales

**Dead men and their tales**

Summary: Both Sherlock and John deal with dead men in very different ways.

Thank you so much to my lovely betas - they've both been amazing with this chapter and story. Thank them that it actually makes some sense! I hope you've all had a lovely time over the holidays and wish everyone a fab New Year :)

* * *

The case was shaping up to be rather interesting. A mass grave had been uncovered by workmen digging down in the old underground tunnels for repair work; four bodies, all from different periods with the last body being that of a man who had died just seven months ago.

Fascinating.

Though some facts were obvious; the placements of the bodies suggested that only the one from the 1940s had died of (somewhat) natural causes. It seemed most likely the body was a victim from the blitz, an injured inhabitant of the city that had crawled away underground, got lost and died from his injuries. The cracked ribs gave an obvious indication of cause of death.

The others had been moved in at the same time as the most recent murder victim; that was clear from the state of them all and where they were placed in comparison to the body from the forties. It had been insultingly obvious to him that they had been placed there. Still the DI's flushed embarrassment had been almost amusing when Sherlock had pointed out that the two skeletons that had been moved were missing clothes.

Really, what had happened to the class of criminal's these days that they made such an obvious error?

It had been made even better when the police had classed the case as a low priority due to the age of the most recent victim's death. Seven months old and it wasn't matching any missing persons report.

He had a feeling he was missing something about the most recent body in comparison, but he couldn't work out what it was.

Not enough data yet.

There was also something off about the walls. The idiotic morons who had broken through into the small chamber had knocked down the entire wall in their haste to get to the bodies; as if they somehow believed it was possible to revive skeletons now. But the shape, the bricks…

There was something. He just needed to find it.

* * *

Despite what most people he talked to seemed to believe, soldiers didn't drop like flies every day. The death tolls on the news should tell people that.

What John did often see was the injured. Horrific, debilitating injuries that were just a bit too distasteful and complicated for the news to focus on.

He'd never seen the bodies come back in before.

Much less one of a friend.

Richard "Sandy" Alcott. Called Sandy by them all because not a day went by where he didn't complain to everyone he saw that 'it was just so fucking sandy'. He'd been an officer, the same rank as John and they'd shared a few laughs during off duty moments.

Dead.

He could remember when his Dad had died; the sudden shock, the inability to believe he was gone. But then everyone had gathered round and soothed him, there had been periods where he had barely gotten out of his pyjamas and had hidden with the television or in total silence.

There was no time for that now.

He had a moment, a second when he gaped at Sandy's body as it came in, just ahead of the others. The grey pallor and the simple…nothingness. A body without anyone there to shape expressions into the face or show personality-

There was something horrific about seeing that on a friend's face.

John dragged his eyes away, just as the next one was brought in. Even unconscious there was still something different, something…alive.

John clenched his jaw and moved over, trying to shove Sandy to the back of his mind for now. His mentor, the officer overseeing his surgeon training watched him closely as John stepped forward and swallowed.

"Watson."

Surprised, John looked up at Rogers' face. "Sir?"

"Push it aside."

John nodded." I know," he said straightening. "Be a fucking crime to have more go out dead than came in, wouldn't it?"

It was the same thing Rogers had said to him when the first injured soldier had been carried in to them.

"God lad," Rogers said approvingly.

With a tightening of his jaw, John got to work.

* * *

This case was magnificent!

The murderer was an idiot, luck more than planning had helped him (yes him, his shoe size indicated as much) but still, it was beautiful. The holes in the skeletons had given him pause; the coroner had seemed more fascinated and baffled by the fact they were more than three hundred years old, well preceding the London underground, but the holes…they had been an anomaly it had taken seven hours to work out.

It was with a great deal of reluctance that Sherlock stumbled home at four in the morning. All those stupid people asleep when there was finally something interesting to do, a murder to solve; he couldn't understand it. The technicians had gone home, seemingly uninterested in his investigation, DI Ratcliffe was useless because he couldn't see the point of investigating a case this overlooked by the media and Lestrade had told him to fuck off because it wasn't his case.

What was wrong with them all?

He'd even screened a few calls from who he guessed was probably John from the number. Hesitating, he twiddled his phone as he unlocked the door.

John or case?

John first. Any nagging curiosity would be sated and then he could focus fully on the case.

He called through, knowing it was Mycroft's influence that allowed them some ease with this. It still wasn't enough to Sherlock's mind, after all, nothing could replace having John here, in London.

"Sherlock?" John sounded tired.

"Were you asleep?"

There was a rather long silence. "No," John said eventually. "Can't sleep at the moment."

Duty? Some strange game the lads were playing? Sherlock had met enough soldiers now to know they had odd ways of passing their time when waiting for action. "I have an interesting case," he announced.

"Yeah?" The smile in John's voice was deliciously soothing and Sherlock could almost feel himself preen like a content cat. "How interesting?"

"Brilliant, though not the killer; he's a moron. But it's different John, so different from the usual lack of imagination. He's tried at least."

John chuckled, "Well that is all you can ask for from a murderer."

"Indeed." Sherlock flopped on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. "I almost wish Lestrade had picked up the case. At least he answers his phone."

"What time is it there?"

"Four."

"In the morning?" Sherlock could feel the way John rolled his eyes. "Some people do sleep."

"Boring."

There was a half-hearted laugh.

"And the bodies," Sherlock added quickly, somehow feeling that John's attention was slipping away. "Four bodies, all in this chamber underground; there are miles of closed off tunnels from the development of the underground. He resealed the chamber with the bodies inside. I imagine he hoped that if it was found we would write it off as an old crime or accident; idiot obviously knows nothing about forensics. From the looks of things the murder victim was a friend and from the lack of damage to the body it seems as if the friend was left there-"

John's breath hitched suddenly, his exhale sounding like a slow hiss.

Wait.

Sherlock suddenly switched off the case and focussed on John, putting it all together-

"Something happened," Sherlock breathed. "What?"

"I…first casualty." John seemed to be trying to shrug it away. "Just took a bit of getting used to."

That wasn't him. The wording, the phrasing; it wasn't what John would automatically say.

"A friend?"

"I knew him. He was a good soldier-"

"Have they indoctrinated you?" Sherlock demanded. "Or are_ they_ listening?"

"Don't."

"John-"

"For Christ sake; I can't collapse. I can't think about it. I have a job to do," John snarled. "If I start bawling like a baby whenever someone comes in then I'll be fucking useless. Worse, I'll be a liability."

"You can talk to me," Sherlock said, somewhat lost as to how to help.

"At home," John agreed. "Maybe, but…I still have a job to do when I get off this phone and wandering around upset is shit for morale."

"John-"

"I can't," John sucked in a breath. "Sorry, I can't."

The line went dead.

* * *

It took him an age to shake John away and concentrate on the case again. He could do nothing for John at the moment.

That logic, though correct, was difficult to fully accept.

But he needed someone to talk to. He'd been so close, explaining things to John. The niggling thing he was missing had almost started to shake into something useful.

What was it?

Inspector Ratcliffe was useless at helping. He seemed to think Sherlock was patronising him by trying to explain it.

It probably hadn't helped that Sherlock had told him that he was useless at listening. That glimmer of understanding that he had felt when talking to John hadn't even flickered when he used Ratcliffe.

He needed something else.

* * *

Gerry Baster lay pale in his bed, looking pained but determined as they took his report. John lingered, keeping an eye on his vitals, not entirely convinced that they needed to do this.

Well. That wasn't entirely true. He knew they needed the report, they needed to know exactly what had happened to limit the danger next time they sent a patrol into the area, even if it was just briefing those who went on what they should look for.

It just seemed wrong when he was lying there looking so…fragile.

"-next thing I knew I was looking at the sky. There was-" Baster broke himself off. "Lieutenant Alcott was gasp-" he shook his head. "Lieutenant Alcott died on scene," he finally said and John felt a shiver of impotence flood through him. "Johnson was unconscious all the way through. Sir, can I ask-"

"He's stable," John said cutting in. "Comatose but stable."

Baster shot him a grateful look. "Jammy sod," he said after a moment. "Sleeping through all this."

"Did anyone approach before we arrived?" Captain Cauldwell asked.

"No, didn't see anyone. Silent as…it was silent. Locals sir, they were afraid as we went through. Those who did this have got 'em scared."

They asked him some more questions, but Baster was vague from the pain and any more medication would make him woozy. In the end they agreed to try again tomorrow, to see if the night reawakened any more memories for him.

Sandy had been alive, John thought as he upped the medication finally. He'd died from the blood loss and shock.

He shouldn't have. They could have treated that.

As much as he wanted to shove at something, to kick out at the futility of it all, he sat quietly and flipped through the charts of his patients, trying not to see all those whose injuries could have been far less severe if treated immediately.

* * *

What had happened?

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to picture it as he stood in the morgue.

Useless!

Frustrated, he paced back and forth, back and forth, until he stopped by the head of the 1940's body and stared down, unseeing.

"What did you see?" he muttered to himself. "You were lying, opposite the entrance…what did you see."

He picked up the skull and stared at it firmly, as if by glaring he could piece back a face, eyes and a vision he could use.

Unbidden, his eyes drifted to the evidence bag containing what the body had on him at the time he'd been found. There was a rather thick, long coat; a soldiers from the looks of it. A man on leave, caught up in the bombings…

He stroked a thumb over the bones. To face that danger away and then not be kept safe when home-

No. He was projecting. Shaking himself he tried to focus on the facts. The body, at some point and for some years had been the only one down in the tiny pocket of space. An old service tunnel, buried from the bombings. There were endless tunnels from the Victorian times and onwards that had been abandoned and lost from disuse; a warren of links. It wouldn't have been hard for someone to have got lost in the chaos, to have forced a door and become lost, especially due to the blow to the head shown in the bones that would have caused a rather severe concussion.

Coat on, coat off, coat on. That's what the forensics said. The movement had fractured bones in the delirium.

But...the man had been coherent enough to force a door open, to look for an alternative means of escape or safety. And, if Sherlock was correct with the most likely route the man had taken, he had been aiming in a good direction, sticking as close to the Piccadilly Line as possible.

Sherlock had even been able to visit one of the ghost stations because of this case. It was delicious, walking into Aldwych station.

Wait…

"Why would you do that?" Sherlock asked the skull. "How did you do that? Concussed, able to follow the underground…smarter than most only to take your coat off and on…enough force to fracture-

Oh.

Oh!

"You wouldn't," Sherlock started to smile at the skull. "No, stupid thing to do. But he, the man, this Alan would take your coat if he was cold. So he was alive when-"

Oh, that was interesting.

That was very interesting.

And if the soldier had been coherent and had known where he was going-

Oh!

* * *

"How you doing?"

John glared at his food. "Fine, sir. Why wouldn't I be?"

Captain Cauldwell took a seat next to him, his body turned to John and John sat stubbornly facing the table. "You did a good job John, have done ever since they came in."

John shot him a wary look.

"I know it seems hard," Cauldwell said gently. "I know it seems uncaring and cruel, but you surely get why-"

"I do, sir," John said firmly. "I just….he was alive. If he'd had medical assistance there, he would have been alive."

"It's done now," Cauldwell said firmly. "Don't do that to yourself. You've helped plenty of people Watson, don't sell yourself short."

John nodded.

* * *

"You down here Sherlock?" Lestrade called.

"Go away, not your case," Sherlock shouted back, head tilted as he knelt on the dusty floor.

"What the fuck are you doing"? Lestrade asked, almost sounding pained at the sight of him.

"Bricks."

"What?"

"Bricks-" Sherlock cut himself off. "What do you want Inspector? To ridicule my methods?"

"No," Lestrade leaned against the uneven edges of the gaping hole in the wall. "You do know they've gone for the day."

"The dedication of the police," Sherlock sneered, "Is truly touching."

"You know we tell young officers to not do this," Lestrade said gently. "You'll burn yourself out. You need to take a break now and then."

"And do what? Go to the pictures and watch swooning heroines and loud explosions?" Sherlock sniffed derisively.

"How's John?"

Sherlock faltered in what he was doing and glanced back. "Why?"

Lestrade just looked at him.

"If you were half that observant with your cases you wouldn't need me quite so much," Sherlock said, turning back to recreating the wall as best he could on the uneven surface of the chamber.

The silence was heavy, waiting.

"I…a friend of his was killed."

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said quietly. "He okay?"

"No, he's dea-"

"I meant John," Lestrade's flash of amusement vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Is John all right?"

Slowly Sherlock shook his head, his hands not pausing in their task. "They are not to wallow in grief or show anything that is not conducive to boosting morale," Sherlock replied bitterly. "Especially officers."

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed quietly. "You're meant to feed it back into the job."

Sherlock shot him a startled glance.

"When I was starting out we had someone in our squad shot and killed. We had to get on with it to find the killer, to prosecute, to not look as if we were on some vendetta. Nature of working in a job where you serve and protect. You can't let yourself react or you fail to do the job."

"It's stupid," Sherlock muttered. "They all know they're upset, why lie?"

Lestrade shrugged. Then frowned. "Seriously, what the fuck are you doing?"

* * *

He'd solved it.

The case that had instantly been written off as a cold case and not worth trying to solve. He'd damned well solved it. His name was in the newspaper. Not often, and easily missed, but it was there. Evidence that he had done what no-one else could, proof that the case had been interesting.

After all, how often did one discover a body, an attempt to turn the crime scene into one of dull historical curiosity in an attempt to hide a truly interesting one?

And it didn't mean a damned thing. The natural, delicious high of the case was quickly fading and he was left with the monotony of nothingness and that ache to do something, to feel something burn through him and make a difference.

With a long, loud sigh, he reached out and picked up his latest…acquisition, balancing it on his fingertips as he studied the shape of the bones in front of him. The unseeing eyes and almost amused smile created by the jaw bone and teeth.

A good man, he thought hefting it. Unnamed and lost to history, but one who had tried to protect and recover treasures of the British Museum hidden in the war.

Duty. Bravery. And the soldier had been so close to his goal. Only one wrong turn had seen him in the chamber next to the one he'd wanted. But still, the skull and his coat had helped him solve his first big case, assisted beautifully and allowed him to wander the tunnels he had wanted to see for years.

Sherlock smiled back at the skull. "What next?" he asked it, as he placed it on top of a stack of books.

* * *

Skype was always a little better. He could see John; see his expressions and looks which always helped.

"Sorry about the other day," John muttered, looking rather self-conscious, even though he had practically barred himself in the tiny closet like room for privacy. "I…I hadn't slept in hours."

Sherlock could still remember the days when that meant John would be grouchy rather than emotionally distant.

And, longingly, he could still remember the days when he wouldn't have touched that word with a ten foot barge pole. "And now?"

John breathed out. "I feel so fucking useless," he said suddenly. "Sandy was alive; he died on the way here. What's the point of being a doctor when I'm not in the right place to help people?"

"You are seeing the limitations of what you do?" Sherlock asked quietly, trying to ignore the sudden flare of hope in his chest.

John nodded bitterly. "I patch them up as best I can and then I send them back out or back home. I never…I never follow through from start to finish. I feel…" he laughed suddenly. "Jesus, I feel like one of those puncture repair kits. Quick fixes." He winced as his gaze lowered, probably to Sherlock's face on the screen. "Am I that thick that I went into this hoping to make a real difference?"

It was a fine line to walk; balancing being reassuring without being reassuring enough it would knock John out of this sudden doubt in his career. "You have made a difference," he said slowly. "What do you think I would be like without you?"

John smiled.

"There are always other options," Sherlock said, careful now. "Other ways to help. You should look into them."

"And you'd be happy with that?" John asked curiously. "If I changed career or did something different?"

Happy? He'd be ecstatic. "I could cope," he settled for saying.

John grinned at him, looking pleased. "I…Okay. Just, I want to think this through."

"Naturally," Sherlock conceded, feeling his mood improve even further.

"So, this case?" John asked. "Fancy telling me about it?"

"Oh, a builder who did some work at the British Museum," Sherlock leaned forward, the high of the case dripping through once more. "He found some old records detailing how certain items were moved for protection. His partner happened to be one the maintenance workers on the underground tunnels and agreed to look for the treasure. Mr Parry seemed to think they would never find the goods, and panicked when they did. Our builder and he fought and Parry was knocked out, Billinton thought he was dead. He ran, taking the maps and torches with him, only to gather the courage to come back a few weeks later for the goods. He took what he wanted, then re-walled the hidden crypts, stole some extra bodies and walled them all up together once he put the coat back on our soldier." Sherlock shot a fond look at the skull. "His biggest mistake," he scoffed dismissively, and then frowned. "Well...of sorts. Do people really not understand how museum inventory works?" he asked petulantly. "The other two skeletons still had holes from the wires laced through to keep them in an interesting position when being viewed."

With a fond smile, John nodded. "Clearly they weren't counting on you." He shifted. "Mycroft said you had your name in the paper."

A tabloid. Perhaps that was an indication of how much Mycroft was trying, that he had stooped to buying such a thing. "A small mention."

"Next one will be bigger," John promised. "I can feel it. Mycroft always said that one day the entirety of London would know your name."

One day, when John was home beside him.

Thankfully, that day seemed to be coming sooner, rather than later.

* * *

Next Chapters:

**Surviving the Holmes family**

**Take aim**


	9. Surviving the Holmes family

**Surviving the Holmes Family**

Chapter Summary: Anthea has had a few interesting dealings with the Holmes Family.

Author's Note: We should be back to weekly updates again now on sundays. NatS should start it's weekly updates next week.

* * *

**January 2007**

The first time Anthea met Sherlock Holmes it was during her interview. Sitting outside a grand office door, a little bored and amused as an elderly gentleman stared fixatedly at her legs, she entertained herself by pretending to smooth off imaginary dust from her stockings.

She gained an extra admirer in seconds.

At first she thought he was another candidate, albeit an awful one. He strode in, stopped, stared at the three waiting candidates and sneered at the man closest to him.

"He won't hire you. He has no social life; this is the only chance he gets to spot some cleavage," Sherlock informed him. "Not to mention your speed addiction being a potential embarrassment. If you need to take drugs to keep up he won't risk you coming in sober."

The man went pale in horror and glanced at the door.

"Mr Holmes," one of the receptionists said with a sigh.

Mr Holmes? For a dreadful moment Anthea imagined working with this man day after day, but clearly this was a relative of some kind.

"Your brother isn't taking visitors; he only wishes to meet those who make our short list."

"Yes, I know how he despises leg work," Sherlock actually shooed the man out of his seat and sunk down. "Short list me, he isn't answering his phone."

The receptionist gave him a long, long look and then reached for the phone. Anthea flexed, wanting to stand and tell her not to give in to the mad man but, having not met Mr Mycroft Holmes, she had no idea whether that would be appreciated or not.

Sherlock stared at her. A long assessing look.

"I have fantastic cleavage," she said turning her head to him. "And I don't need help keeping up. At anything," she added with a slight purr.

His unusual pale eyes continued to study her. "He's boring," Sherlock said eventually. "You'll spend most of your day sampling baked goods."

Smirking, Anthea stretched in her chair.

The job was as good as hers.

* * *

**April 2007**

At the end of her probationary period, by which point most people had burned out, Anthea was introduced, albeit accidently, to Mummy Holmes.

It occurred quite by accident. A dinner party with a few ministers in which a partner was required. Mycroft, as ever, had one organised and seemed content with the selection until the rather bland woman did the most interesting thing in her life and broke her leg.

"You will have to step in," Mycroft said as he looked through a report. "Modest apparel please, I wish to conduct a conversation, not a battle with your breasts."

She changed quickly.

There was something wonderful about Mycroft. He was such an unruffled man, possibly due to the fact that his brother would have looked utterly confused when asked to define the word shame. Living with Sherlock seemed to have robbed Mycroft of any and all shocked expressions.

It made her want to shock him.

It was a game they played, one she revelled in. She would act as unconcerned and relaxed as possible and still do her job and be the walking memory stick that Mycroft required, no matter how bored she seemed. He in turn would pile on work and attempt to make her run around like a headless chicken.

He'd succeeded twice. The time with the Crisis in Aberdeen hadn't counted because he'd been worse than her.

She'd managed to stun him twice when she first started working for him. His jaw had twitched in anger when he'd found her playing Tetris on her phone and then had gaped a little when she had rattled off the pertinent information and handed him the completed documents. More impressively she'd made him almost smile four times since he'd become used to their unspoken game.

He had no idea what he was dealing with. Modest and sexy were not mutually exclusive.

She saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes and, more gratifyingly, the lingering gaze over her body before he held out his arm to her. "Impressive," he said as they walked in.

"You did say modest."

"Indeed. I will choose my words with more care in the future."

That made her smile genuine as she nodded at the dinner guests when they took their seats.

* * *

Violet Holmes, as it turned out, was at the same restaurant. It hardly came as a surprise that whenever the conversation and debating eased, Mycroft's eyes would glance over at his mother as if to assure himself that all was well.

It was sweet.

She'd seen pictures of Violet before. Mycroft wasn't the sort of person to have pictures on his desk but his house held a few scatterings of tasteful professional portraits done of the family back when his father had been alive. There was only one of Sherlock, who had been a teenager and had scowled fiercely at the camera, as if blaming it for something.

By the very end of the evening, once their guests had departed to discuss the terms of the agreement, Mycroft sat straight backed and sipped at his coffee, seemingly lost in thought.

"An excellent forth date," Anthea said, as she waited on hold for the office.

"Fifth," Mycroft corrected absently. "She'll conduct one more before ending it. He's done better than most."

Then Violet, as her date stood up to use the toilet, looked straight at her son with an unimpressed look on her face.

Mycroft, the man who could manipulate leaders of countries and royalty, flinched. "One day off if you intercept her."

"Hmm?" She asked listening to the music the office played while on hold.

"Two," Mycroft took another sip.

"I'm on the phone," she scolded. "Stop talking to me while I'm listening."

"My dear, I am well aware that you can conduct three conversations at once while painting your nails. Do your job and act as a filter for conversations I do not want to have."

"Never mix business and pleasure," she said sweetly, "or work and family."

There was an odd shift in his eyes.

"Mycroft," Violet Holmes sat down next to her son. "If you insist on joining me on my dates I'm afraid I will have to insist you start paying for them as well."

"Clearly we simply both have excellent taste in restaurants," Mycroft was barely restraining the urge to squirm. "I have no wish to view your romantic conducts."

Violet didn't look fooled but seemed to sense it would be pointless to try and force the truth from him. "And you must be Anthea, Mycroft's new assistant."

Anthea nodded, "Pleased to meet you Mrs Holmes."

"My son told me all about you," Violet said to Anthea's surprise. "Why is it both my sons feel the need to tattle on the other's acquaintances?"

Sherlock had mentioned her? Interesting. Mycroft almost closed his eyes as his mother spoke.

"Since Mycroft and I have such similar taste, shall we finish off the evening as a double date?"

"That would be lovely," Anthea said with a smile, answering both Violet and Caroline at the office.

* * *

**September 2007**

John Watson was not what she had expected.

There had been a few mentions of him. Often it was simply a report that she passed, unread, to Mycroft. Sometimes he was vaguely referenced during more informal meetings when anecdotes were required. He was always referred to as 'my future brother in law', which was both practical when discussions about homosexuality weren't necessary and to limit any questions about Sherlock. Not out of embarrassment but because to explain Sherlock Holmes in any way would require more time than an anecdote was meant to take up.

Often John's name came up when Sherlock got into trouble. Variations of 'he wouldn't dare if John were here' and 'how does John control him?' seemed to be used a lot in the Holmes' family.

He was in the army, she knew that much, and was working as a doctor. It was impossible to picture what he would be like. Sherlock seemed reluctant to talk about him, as if he wanted to hoard John to himself. The few scatterings she'd picked up implied Sherlock was incredibly secluding of John when he was on leave.

Which was why it amused her that her first meeting with John involved very few clothes on his behalf.

Sherlock had stolen some folders from Mycroft. Nothing overly vital but they needed them back so she was playing thief for that half hour. The shower was running so she thought nothing of it.

"Don't tell me you're actually braving the kitchen? You'd better be making tea and not reconstructing the spatter pattern of brain matter-" the voice, not Sherlock's, got closer and Anthea realised the shower had finished while she'd been texting.

Unusual for her, but it had been four days since she'd had a relaxing moment.

The man that appeared in the doorway was wet, tanned, toned and naked.

It was a pleasant sight. Leaning against the table she took a lovely long look. The look was interrupted when John picked up a plate and held it vertically in front of his crotch.

"He's not here, is he?" John asked.

"No." She gave him one last long look and continued texting again.

"Would you mind flicking the kettle on?" John asked after a moment.

She raised her eyes over the phone. "Will you be using that plate as you walk away?"

An amused and embarrassed smile crossed his face, which made him all the sweeter in her opinion. "Uh-"

Behind him, Sherlock appeared as if from nowhere – a scowl levelled at her as he slunk in. "Not yours," he glared as he stood behind John.

John half turned his head. "Can I borrow your coat?" he asked.

The affronted look he received made her want to giggle. "No, you're still wet," he complained, trying to aim his coat away from John.

The smile that comment got made her coo at them, which in turn made Sherlock's glare murderous. "Take the files and leave," Sherlock ordered. "They're unsurprisingly useless anyway."

Anthea nodded and, just to annoy him, tilted her head trying to catch another glimpse at what was hidden behind the plate. John pulled a face and stared at the wall as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh or not.

"Stop looking," Sherlock complained.

"Could have given me your coat," John muttered.

"You could learn how to dry yourself properly; I fail to understand how you manage in the army if you cannot dry yourself quickly."

"I was hoping you would dry me off," John's lips quirked.

"I'll dry you off," Anthea offered, loving the way Sherlock's face went from a dawning, interested comprehension to a protective wrath in less than a second.

"You will leave," Sherlock suddenly seemed a lot more concerned in blocking her gaze of John. "And you," he said, pointing at his partner, "Should go-"

"Lie on the bed?"

It was possibly the only time she ever saw Sherlock look completely torn between glee at an idea and desperation to keep everything of John to himself.

"I'll help you," Anthea offered, mainly because she wanted to see if she could get Sherlock to turn tomato red with sheer frustration. As if sensing her intentions, John, in a move she utterly approved of, pressed his lips in a repressed grin and put the plate back on the table.

"Hmm," Anthea nodded. "Nice."

John winked at her then turned. "Bed, when you're ready."

Sherlock, who had gaped at the exchange suddenly narrowed his eyes. "That was aimed at me?" he called after John. "Wasn't it?"

"Sure," John called as he padded out of the room.

"John!" Sherlock glared after him and then turned back to Anthea. "I do not approve of you," he said, shaking a finger at her.

"I'm pretty sure that will only put me higher in your brother's esteem," she said, checking that she had all she needed. "Might even get a pay rise if you splutter like this at him."

Sherlock slunk back looking utterly forlorn as if he couldn't work out where he had lost the upper hand.

"Although I have got five minutes if you need a hand-"

"No." Sherlock straightened and sniffed. "Believe me, I can make him see God if I wish to."

"Sherlock!" John yelped from their room.

"I'm seeing the appeal of this," Sherlock muttered and nodded at her. Then shooed at her with his hands. "Leave. I have things to do."

"You really shouldn't call your boyfriend 'things'," Anthea scolded.

Sherlock scowled at her as she walked to the door.

"Partner," she heard him hiss as she closed it behind her.

* * *

They finished with the Russian advisor at three forty in the morning.

"Scotch?" she asked Mycroft, walking to the liquor cabinet.

"Please," Mycroft replied, looking utterly unlike his usual self as he leaned back in his chair, head tipped to the ceiling. He looked rumpled and looser than she had ever seen him.

It was a strange thing to see on him.

"You have a lovely Russian accent," she complimented as she placed the glass on the desk and sat on the seat facing him. "It's really rather impressive."

It amused her that he hummed at that. "It is slightly flawed," he said, still looking up. "I do not get a chance to use it as regularly as I would like."

"We still need to call Latvia."

Mycroft frowned and tipped his head down to look at her. "I am starting to worry that you exist solely on caffeine," he said after a moment.

"Why sleep when there are things to be done?"

That tugged a small smile from him. "You sound like my brother when he was young."

From anyone else that might have been an insult. "I met his partner the other day. John."

"Did you?" Mycroft sounded falsely interested as he sipped his drink.

"He was naked."

There was the smallest pause between the next sip. "I take it Sherlock approved wildly of that?"

"He spluttered," Anthea leaned back, showing off her legs. "It was a good afternoon. Sherlock was rendered almost unable to insult and I got to see a wet, naked soldier."

Mycroft looked away. "Unable to insult?" he said shaking himself. "How I wish I had been there to see that."

Inwardly she frowned, not too sure why he was suddenly pulling away from their relaxed conversation.

"So…" Mycroft sat properly as he finished his scotch. "I believe we need to inform Latvia of the agreement."

"Yes…" she shook herself. "How's your Latvian?"

"Rusty."

It wasn't.

* * *

"You must stay for dinner," Violet said to her.

"How lovely of you to offer," Anthea said, entirely sure that Violet had waited until Mycroft was out of the room to ask her. It was hard to work out if her presence would be welcomed or not. "Let me just check with the office."

Violet nodded. "Of course. He's in the study."

Well…the Holmes boys had got their quick brains from somewhere she supposed, smiling at Violet who watched her with amusement.

"Sir?" she knocked on the door as Mycroft glanced over from reading an email. "Your mother wants me to stay for tea and is aware I am asking your permission."

"Then it appears you are staying," Mycroft said, looking back at the screen. "I would not dare get in between my mother and her next victim."

* * *

It turned out they weren't the only ones.

The second John and Sherlock arrived, Mycroft looked uncomfortable. Deeply uncomfortable. It confused her because, while Sherlock wasn't the easiest person to include in dinner conversation, it was like watching an old married couple bicker.

"I have no interest in eating this," Sherlock announced, pushing the pear salad away from him. Without breaking the rhythm of eating, John pushed it back again.

"Eat it or wear it," he suggested. "So how is the book club coming along now?" he asked Violet in almost the same breath but with an entirely different tone.

"Wonderfully, though Helen Marsh seems to think she should be running it now," Violet shook her head. "Really you wouldn't believe what that woman will do for the position."

"Would she kill?" Sherlock asked, glaring at the pear that had somehow made its way to his fork.

Violet glared at him. "If I said yes would you pay attention?"

"I'd be interested to see how long you could maintain a lie," Sherlock said. "John's hideous at it."

"Or maybe I'm so good you haven't realised it yet," John offered, glancing at him.

Sherlock seemed to actually ponder that. "Doubtful," he muttered. "You could barely keep a straight face yesterday when you told those children that a dinosaur lived in the Thames."

That gained John a few strange looks. "I…I was bored," he shrugged. "Someone was collecting river samples and forgetting to explain himself in stages again."

"Well someone accused me of being both patronising and too complex in one afternoon," Sherlock pulled a face at something he ate and then attempted to pick whatever it was out with his fork. "I cannot be both."

"If anyone could be, it would be you," John replied. "Anyway, Violet, sorry. The book club. Do you have any to recommend or send?"

"Send?" Anthea asked curiously.

"Violet sends me parcels," John explained, rolling his eyes and removing the napkin with Sherlock's discarded food in it, in what was clearly an attempt to get Sherlock to stop scowling at it.

"You do?" Anthea smiled. "That's lovely."

"It isn't," Sherlock sulked. "They have to be 'suitable' dull things."

"Yeah," John pushed something onto Sherlock's plate and, amazingly, there wasn't a word of complaint. "That's what I need when I'm on a military base up to my elbows in injuries. A kidney."

"It would save you looking at the donor register," Sherlock muttered.

John's lips twitched, and then he laughed. A full bellied, contagious laugh that had them smiling.

Then: "Did you put pear on my plate?" Sherlock asked, looking suddenly affronted.

"You ate it, what's the problem?"

* * *

**December 2007**

It was strange. Having seen the way Sherlock lit up when John was around made it so much harder to deal with him once John had shipped back out.

"Are you never tempted to keep John here?" Anthea asked after a particularly scathing rant from Sherlock. "It makes Sherlock so much easier to deal with."

"I cannot force someone to do something they do not want to do. Not in this matter at least."

* * *

**March 2008**

Mycroft continued to be tetchy whenever John's name was mentioned. Nothing overly obvious…or even subtly obvious, but she knew him. She spent more time with him than she'd ever spent with anyone else and was at the point where she could tell his mood simply by the way he held his drink or the millimetre by which he raised an eyebrow.

At first she thought perhaps he didn't like John. But he asked for John's military files, and would discuss him fondly, especially in conjunction with Sherlock.

Briefly she toyed with the idea that Mycroft was jealous of Sherlock. But, while she did acknowledge there was truth in that, it was more because Sherlock had found someone who enjoyed being with him, despite his odd personality quirks, than because of John himself.

It was only when she worked out that Mycroft's frown would dive a touch more when she brought John up that she worked out what was happening.

Stupid man. Obviously the only way forward was to punish him.

"A date?" Mycroft asked blankly, "With the Agriculture minister?"

"Will that be a problem?" she asked full of innocence. "You did want me to sweeten him up."

"I…" Mycroft coughed. "You do not need to put yourself out like this. Besides, he will likely be more offended when it is revealed that you have no interest in a man like him."

"Not a problem," she said, tapping away at her phone. "I like men like him."

"I am under the impression that it takes more than liking someone to conduct a successful date."

"Why? I like intelligent partners who are focused and driven. I hate laziness and adore anyone who is economic with their time. Someone who strives for perfection but smiles while they do it."

It was perhaps the only time she ever saw him stupid. "And you think the Agriculture minister has those qualities?" he asked, doubtfully.

"I'll never know until I try," she said. "Will I?"

The idiot man looked rather put out. "He's a complete moron," he muttered in a way that showed a likeness to Sherlock in his petulant moods.

She leaned over to push the documents over for him to sign. "He's not the only one," she said, catching his gaze.

There was a sudden change in him. A questioning look, as if the man who could conduct an entire conversation just by reading the subtle changes in expression couldn't quite work out if he was reading her correctly.

Smirking at the look, she turned to walk to the door, knowing he was watching her. "Oh," she paused in the doorway. "You wouldn't happen to know what he's like with languages?"

That was unsubtle enough to make him almost smile. "Enjoy your date."

"Not as much as I'll enjoy the next one," she said with a wink.

* * *

**April 2008**

It was amusing that he managed to get her into a restaurant without her realising they were on a date. It was only as they approached the table for two in a tiny little hole in the wall known for its quiet atmosphere and calm service that she smiled.

"Ah," she said turning to Mycroft. "That was sneaky."

He smiled at the compliment. "I consider that an outstanding achievement when dealing with you."

* * *

The date went well.

And the man was brilliant at languages; he had an extremely clever tongue.

* * *

**Early August 2008**

The next time she met the Holmes family it was as Mycroft's…well, it was understood she and Mycroft were more than they had been.

"You're wasted on him," Sherlock muttered as he swanned in from his crime scene. Turning to his mother he awkwardly handed her a rather crumpled present for Mycroft's birthday and then almost ran out of the room, texting.

Violet blinked at the present and turned it over a few times. "Do you think it's safe?" she asked.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Anthea asked, sipping the wine.

"I passed it all on to Sherlock," Violet sighed as she put the present on the table. "He was hoping John would be back for this."

"He's still out there?" Anthea asked. "That's been more than a year now."

"Yes," Violet looked at the door, "He's struggling now. But he said that John might be coming home for good soon."

"Yeah?" Anthea smiled. "You'd like that as well I'd imagine."

"He makes Sherlock so happy," Violet said fondly. "He's a lovely boy…" she paused and looked at the door, then at Anthea. "In fact, I think he's ready to settle down."

Anthea gave her a puzzled look. "What makes you say that?" she asked, prepared for the standard vague answer.

Violet, as if sensing her assumption, smirked in a way that was reminiscent of both her sons and held out a receipt from a jewellers.

"Oh," Anthea nodded. "I'd say you're right."

* * *

Next Chapter:

Take Aim - (August 2008) John makes a change and returns home


	10. Take Aim

**Take Aim**

Chapter Summary: John makes a change and returns home.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

There is a note at the bottom about John's army career.

Also thank you to all who reviewed, I think I got to a few of you before school started up and my mind emptied of everything other than 'Of Mice and Men'.

Hate that bloody book! And I'm the teacher!

* * *

**July 2008**

Shattered, John nearly fell into his bunk, wanting nothing more than to crawl into it and stay there for the next three months.

He had two hours.

"You all right there fella?"

John turned to stare up at the newest transfer. "Even my little finger hurts."

Murray snorted in amusement. "You're a doctor, right?"

"Yeah," John sat up and braced his hands on a rung above. "I know I look like a complete wimp but-"

Murray laughed. "Nah…well…you know. Doctors are usually meant to be in tweed and in their forties, so you're doing pretty well."

"Cheers," John rolled his shoulders, trying to get rid of the ache from the recoil. "You one of the ones watching?"

"Aye," Murray grinned as he took a seat opposite. "You've got a damn good aim for someone stuck in the hospitals."

Something about that stung. "Yeah well, you know when we get search and rescues I'll be the first one up."

"Good," Murray nodded. "Always handy to have someone competent saving lives."

John snorted. "Yeah, that's a plus."

"Come on lad," Murray stood and nodded at the doorway. "You'll just be more knackered if you take a kip now. Come and have a sit with me and the lads."

"Can't drink," John warned as he stood. "Then I really would be fucking incompetent."

* * *

"A what?"

Sherlock stared at the woman in front of him who was eyeing him up as if he were a squirrel that had just started to spout Poe horror stories. "A consulting detective," he said (again). Honestly, how hard was it to listen?

The woman stared, and then turned to Lestrade as if he were a translator. "I told you," Lestrade sounded a little short, probably from the lack of sleep since the troubles in his marriage had started up again ten days ago. "He sees things."

It made him sound like a beach psychic. "I observe," Sherlock corrected, feeling a little affronted.

"This is a joke, right?"

"Donovan," Lestrade snapped. "Just get on with your job. Leave him to it."

Sherlock smirked at her as she threw him a disgusted look and stomped off to start taking witness accounts.

"How pleasant," Sherlock said, loud enough that he was sure she'd heard.

"Like you're one to talk," Lestrade snarled. "Just get on with it."

This was going to be a long case.

* * *

**Early August 2008**

"Want one?" Murray asked.

There was something about the smell of cigarettes that reminded John of Sherlock. Trying not to think too hard of how hypocritical he was being, John nodded and drew one from the box.

They sat outside, enjoying the midnight air, sitting on a wall within the compound. Despite knowing it was a useless thing to start thinking, John couldn't help but picture Sherlock sitting beside him, taking in the sights and trying to deduce the people around them. The night's light had always suited him, John thought wistfully as he fiddled with the bullet Sherlock had given him.

"You with me?"

"Sorry," John blinked, startled as he let go. Allowing the chain to slip under his shirt again, he took the lighter. "I was miles away."

"I noticed," Murray grinned as John lit up. "You thinking about your young man?"

Young man? John almost sniggered at hearing Sherlock referred to as such. "I… yeah. He's older than me, but yeah."

"How's he deal with it?" Murray asked. "I mean, my missus, she's amazing, but bloody hell does she nag me when I get back in."

John tried to picture Sherlock as a nagging housewife, amused by the idea. "He…I think he's getting better with it. He's a bit…self-obsessed at times."

Murray threw him an amused look. "We're all selfish wankers, John. Picking this over our loved ones."

"You see it like that?"

Murray sighed and took a drag. "No. But that's what it boils down to for them sometimes. You can't argue with it or get on your high horse; it'll just cause more rows. Trust me John, you've just got to suck it up and agree with that one."

It was strange how badly that sat with him. Wrongly or rightly, he usually thought of Sherlock as the selfish one; it had been true enough for years.

Uncomfortable with the idea, John pushed it away. "So, any more thoughts about what we talked about?"

Murray's eyes narrowed, assessing, and he sighed. "Yeah, I had a word with a few people. They're interested." He didn't seem too happy with the idea.

"You think I'm being stupid?" John asked.

"I…you're a damn good doctor and a damn good shot. The hospital will be missing out if you do this."

It was heartening to hear it, especially with his most recent dip. "Nothing solid yet," John assured Murray. "I'm just testing the waters."

There was a long exhale and dully John watched the smoke rise up in a streak of grey. "No," Murray said. "You're not."

* * *

There was nothing worse in this world than someone new to a job who thought they knew it all. Well, apart from Lestrade stomping around because his wife had slept with the karate Instructor.

The pair of them, Donovan and Lestrade, were trying his limited patience. The entire unit seemed wary of the three of them when they ended up in the same room together.

"He lied to the victim," Donovan shrieked. "That's unacceptable-"

"For you." Sherlock lazed on the chair, absently spinning it slightly from side to side. "I do not need to follow your silly rules-"

Lestrade shot him a filthy look. "You do if you ever want a case from me again."

Sherlock snorted derisively, "I sincerely doubt that. Just wait until the next time you have no leads because you're too thick to look-"

"He's unprofessional," Donovan cut over him. "He's just swanned in here and made a few good guesses."

Pointedly, Sherlock yawned. Across from him, Lestrade scrubbed at his forehead with his hand, clearly getting a headache.

"He gets results," Lestrade muttered.

"He doesn't care!" Donovan folded her arms. "And he hasn't been trained-"

Ah. How dull. "You believe me unqualified because I haven't sat in a class room or started off marching up and down a street hoping the way I dressed will inspire people to behave."

A muscle twitched in her jaw. "He thinks we're all stupid."

"You are."

"See? What normal person just turns up and starts 'helping'-"

"Ah, so now I'm seen as strange because I don't get paid. How quickly the moral high ground vanished-"

"You're one to talk-"

"Enough," Lestrade roared suddenly. "I don't give a flying frig, Piss off the pair of you. I am this close to throwing you two off of this case. Donovan, I would remind you that as part of this unit, you have to cooperate with whoever I see fit to bring in. It's my unit, not yours. Sherlock-"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Just fuck off for the day. Text me if you have something."

Donovan shot him a triumphant look, which quickly vanished when Lestrade glared at her. Seconds later she had closed the door behind her as she left.

Sherlock remained where he was. "I am not a dog begging for scraps," he sniffed.

"You wanna stay here? I swear to God I will flood you with so much paper work it will make you scream and tear that cue-tip hair of yours out."

Vaguely insulted, Sherlock sat up. "I'll see if someone else wants my help-"

"It's the most interesting case we have," Lestrade replied. "I'm getting all the interesting ones now because I'm one of the few people that can put up with you." He shook his head. "Not entirely convinced I ain't been punished for bringing you on in the first place."

There was a small sinking feeling in his gut. "You have the interesting cases?"

"Mostly," Lestrade leaned back. "Go home."

Sherlock stood and then leaned his hands onto the desk. "She's annoying."

"Yup," Lestrade pulled out some paperwork. "Also the best in her class, highly recommended from her instructors and DS's. Quick to advance. A glowing service record so far."

"That means nothing," Sherlock sniffed dismissively.

"You prefer I just hired all the ex-drug addicts that turn up in my office claiming to be more intelligent and useful than my unit put together?"

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, glaring. Lestrade met his furious gaze with a glare of his own.

"Does it annoy you that you insisted on the karate lessons?"

Lestrade's mouth clenched and fury lit his eyes. "Get out now."

With a filthy look, Sherlock smirked and stormed out of the office, stopping when he saw Donovan waiting for him.

"He defends you," she sneered. "And all you can do is goad him."

He was beyond not in the mood for this, but anything that could be construed as an attack might just make Lestrade stubborn enough to not call on him for a few weeks.

It was hardly worth it.

Trying to step around her, he let out a frustrated sigh when she blocked his path and pulled a face as he looked at the exit.

"Do you care about anything? Or is this just a game? These are people's lives we deal with-"

"Really?" he asked in his most disinterested voice. "I thought it was a life size puppet show. You certainly act the part. No original thought or imagination. Dull all the way through."

She didn't like that idea, he could tell. She thought herself to be street smart and shrewd.

Idiot.

"You know nothing about me," she snarled at him.

He leaned to her ear, delighted when she had to stop herself from flinching. "I know you think me amoral and cruel. Amusing really, as you have a habit of going after men that are unavailable to spare yourself from being in a committed relationship-"

"I've never slept with a married man," she said, her eyes flicking at Lestrade's office.

How pathetic of her.

"Yet," Sherlock stepped back. "You'll give up on him soon enough. Lestrade won't do it, won't give up on his marriage like that, but you'll want to show him what he's missing, so much so that you'll even prove me right and hate it while you do it."

Her lip trembled slightly and she sucked in a hurt breath.

Ah. She actually liked Lestrade, properly. There was always something that he missed.

Unfortunately that didn't make his words any less true, nor soften his temper any.

"You enjoy this," she said, holding her ground remarkably. "You enjoy seeing us all miserable. One day I hope you know what it's like to be miserable and have someone find joy in it you freak," she sneered, hissing the last word out before she turned on her heel and walked away.

Sherlock watched her go dispassionately. With any luck she'd transfer out and away from Lestrade.

After all, who would want to stay after that?

* * *

**Mid August 2008**

"Watson."

Used to being summoned (Sherlock had been fantastic training for that), John walked over to the Major and saluted. Dark eyes gazed speculatively, giving nothing away. Instead, he jerked his head towards the practise range.

"I've had a look at your record."

So there was going to be talking during this? Excellent.

"Sir?" John asked as he sighted the target and fired.

"You're good." The Major said. "Maybe not the best doctor ever to walk through, but you're steady. Focused. Well liked and trusted."

John tried not to let his hand shake as he heard the praise. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me," Came the clipped reply. "I haven't done jack shit for you yet."

"Yet?" John asked and, risking a glance, caught the smallest approving smile before it faded away.

"You know why we don't usually have doctors out in combat situations?"

John nodded. "Too trained, too split in the task-"

"You think there's merit in that?"

John considered the question as he fired off a clip. "Sometimes. But sitting out, waiting. Flying in after the damage is done. That's not really my style."

"You want to be the hero?"

"Who doesn't?" John tried to tease. The Major's eyes narrowed and John tried to take back his misstep. "I want to be useful sir. I want to help people. I don't want to see them come in, having been injured and without proper treatment all the way back to base."

"They get treatment."

"They don't get a trained doctor," John pointed out.

Major Moran shifted thoughtfully. "You aren't a qualified surgeon yet," he said slowly. "You have a few more years to go."

"Are you saying I could never come back to it?" John asked, pausing as he raised his arm to fire again.

"I'm asking about your career plans."

"You don't get a table and sterilised equipment out in the field," John pointed out. "And, if I were doing it for purely selfish reasons, I'd have to learn old techniques, how to improvise. You can't learn that half as quick anywhere else. It'd boost me far beyond what I'm doing."

Moran nodded at the target and John fired again, loosening up as he did, oddly feeling more relaxed.

"You'd have to go back down in rank," Moran said after a while. "A career soldier is a whole different kettle of fish to a PQ officer."

"I expected that, sir."

"And you can't be recognised as a doctor out there. You won't have the red-cross protection. It'll be proper risks this time."

An insane Sherlock Holmes part of John felt a stirring of anticipation at the idea; the feeling one got when they finally had to do something for real, with all the dangers of flying or falling. Trying to keep his expression neutral, John nodded.

"It'd be interesting though, comparing whether you make any difference or not," Moran said eventually.

"Is that a go-ahead?" John asked quickly.

"Hit that target again and it will be."

Seconds later, the dead centre exploded and left a neat hole.

* * *

**Late August 2008**

John was home. John was home.

John was back.

Sherlock breathed him in, enjoying the smell of him, the feel of his partner in his arms even as he hid his small, threatening smile.

Soon, John wouldn't be leaving at all.

All too quickly, John pulled back and studied him with a frown. "I need to talk to you about something."

Now?

But…it couldn't be what Sherlock hoped it was. John looked too serious, too worried. Too guilty.

Suddenly, a thousand and one possibilities flittered through Sherlock's mind. Death? Illness? Trauma? Cheating?

"You know that discussion we had?" John asked, tugging him gently to the sofa.

"Yes." Not cheating then or death, or illness or trauma.

Sherlock experienced an odd sinking feeling.

"You've changed your mind?" he asked, feeling suddenly adrift.

John flashed him a confused look. "I told you I was frustrated, being in the hospital or in search and rescues."

"Yes."

"So they've offered me something else."

Oh! Not out of the army, rather aiming in a different direction. How had he missed-

The sudden annoyance at being wrong faded in the wake of realisation that if he had been wrong and John wanted more not less-

"Something else?" Sherlock asked hoarsely.

"I'm dropping the doctoring."

What?

Sherlock's brain stopped as he utterly failed to process that.

"I don't...what does that mean?"

"I'm going in as a career soldier. I can offer medical attention to those in my squad when and if they get hit. It's…we're trying it. Seeing if it makes a difference."

No.

Nonononononono.

No.

No red-cross, no protection. No continued safety on base or in a helicopter.

No.

"I see," Sherlock managed.

John faltered and flashed him a look. "I know…Jesus, I know this isn't what you want-"

Sherlock snorted and looked at the ceiling.

"-but, I…I know I'm being selfish."

If he knew it, then why was he still doing it?

"I know how it must seem, but…I just need to do this. To know that I can, that I tried. To know no matter what happens I can be in control-"

Sherlock stood violently, relieved when John's voice trailed off.

"I thought you were coming home," Sherlock said as he started to pace. "I thought…I thought this was…" he shook his head. "Stupid. Blinded by sentimental idiocy-"

"It isn't," John said quietly. "I like that you want me to come home."

"Then imagine how I feel knowing you don't want to come back," Sherlock snarled at him, suddenly furious. "That running around being shot at is more fun than being here with me."

"God," John glared up at him. "It isn't about that-"

"How is it not about that?" Sherlock asked, throwing up his hands. "I am trying to be patient, I am trying to wait for you to get this out of your system-"

"Out of my system?" John asked in a dangerous voice. "This isn't like…." He seemed to hesitate momentarily, and then his jaw firmed. "This isn't like you and coke."

Sherlock stared at him, and then reached down to yank John up. "Check me," he snarled, pulling up his sleeves. "Check, check everything-"

"I wasn't saying you'd slipped up-"

"Then why are you determined to punish me for something I haven't done in years?" Sherlock pushed at him, beyond fury now.

"I'm not punishing you by doing this," John shouted. "This has absolutely nothing to do with you."

Sherlock reared back, torn between screaming at John, hitting him and simply walking away.

"No," he said in a tight voice eventually. "I suppose I should at least be grateful that this time you chose to tell me at the first opportunity rather than hide it for half a year."

John flushed angrily at the reminder. "I said sorry for that-"

"Why should I accept your apology when you won't forgive me for the drugs?" Sherlock asked dangerously.

John seemed to ignore that. "Not everything is about you," he said slowly. "I want to do this for me. How would you feel if I asked you to give up the cases?"

It was like talking to a brick wall. Infuriated, Sherlock turned and slammed out of the flat.

* * *

**Next Chapter**

Man up – Sherlock and John deal with the repercussions of their fight as Harry's wedding takes place and John deals with his "enlightened" mother.

* * *

**Author's Note on John's Army Career**

If anyone has any questions about John's army career then they should go to "http":"/"wellingtongoose"."livejournal"."com"/"7885"."html " (remove the speech marks!) This basically explains the idea that in order for John to have the army skills we know and the doctoring skills, he likely changed his career and became a professional soldier because of the lack of actions an army soldier usually sees.

The problem in this verse is that, having John as the younger one, he doesn't get the necessary time to finish his surgeons training and do this; hence Moran's concerns. There is quite a bit of artistic licence going on here but to be halfway realistic and get John the skills we all know and love, this route of his career is the most valid. It also will disrupt the way he rises through the ranks as again, he won't have anywhere near as much time as canon John does.

But the link is really fascinating – it's been amended a few times as people have added pointers and makes for a really interesting read. Anyone who wants to write John and his army experiences should definitely have a look at it, it makes the whole thing so much easier without having to re-read everything thirty thousand times!

* * *

**Also**

NatS might be a little late and has a small cliffie (if it stays the way it is!). Just a warning to some that if they dislike cliff hangers then don't read it until ch18 is up.


	11. Man up

**Man up**

Chapter Summary: In the aftermath of their fight, Sherlock and John try to work out what to do. Oh, and John has to endure Harry's wedding.

* * *

Warnings for homophobic remarks – or odd ones at least…

**I should also warn that there is a cliffhanger at the end of this and it will be updated in a week**.

* * *

**End of August 2008**

Things were not good.

Of course they were never going to be good, this was Harry's wedding they were talking about. It was never going to be the easiest week of John's life. But, even when she'd told him about it and he'd discussed the event via texts with an extremely unimpressed Sherlock, John had never imagined that he would have already spent half of his leave actually living with his mother while Sherlock sulked.

John flopped down on the bed. Not sulked, he could admit that after four days. Sulked sort of implied that Sherlock was overreacting or the one at fault.

But then it was hardly as if John was at fault either, he reasoned.

Why was it so complicated? He wanted to be in the army, to help, to feel as useful as possible. Why did Sherlock have to make it into either or?

And for that matter, what would happen if John did leave the army? What if he became just a GP, handing out prescriptions for chest infections and the occasional allergic reaction?

That hardly sounded like someone who could keep Sherlock's interest for long.

Why should Sherlock be the only exciting one? To have something that he loved?

But, despite all that, John could feel his fingers itching for his phone. They saw little enough of each other as it was, without wasting precious time on a fight.

Still didn't mean he wanted to be the one to apologise.

* * *

_Coffee?_

_Why? SH_

_Miss you x_

_Not enough apparently. SH_

_I'm not apologising for it Sherlock. I told you as quick as I could, face to face. I'm sorry you don't like it and I'm sorry you think it's a personal slight. But either meet with me or-_

John paused, not at all sure what to say next. Seconds later he deleted it.

_Please. I don't want to waste two weeks not seeing you._

_Would you stay if we did? SH_

Relief drowned him. He'd been half afraid that Sherlock was on the cusp of calling an end to it, but the idea of breaking up hadn't seemed to register at all with Sherlock.

_Might put you in my suitcase._

_Can't be done. I've tried. SH_

The weight that had been in his chest lifted. _Coffee?_

_Fine. SH_

Laughing at the text, John shook his head as he typed.

_Where?_

_Have you ever been to Baker Street? SH_

* * *

Doubtfully, John stared at the scaffolding and builders sheets that covered the building from sight. Once again he counted, just to make sure he had gone to the right place.

217, 219 then the sheets, then 223…

Shrugging, John rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. Sherlock had better not have been winding him-

A hand appeared between the sheets and tugged him forward. Trying not to grin, John let himself be pulled through the gap, stumbling into Sherlock.

"Why are we here?" he asked, trying not to stare at Sherlock too obviously. Stupid, he'd missed him more in a few days than he had in all the months he'd been away. Sherlock was meant to be with him when he was in London.

"Come on," Sherlock encouraged, tugging at his hand. "We are the first to try."

"Try?" John let himself be dragged through what looked like a shop in progress and to the back, ignoring the drawings on the floor that suggested a counter and into the kitchens behind.

Sherlock didn't respond as he pulled them through another door and into a smaller, house kitchen where someone was putting a plate-

"Mrs Hudson?" John blinked and glanced at Sherlock.

"Hello dear," she said, sounding wonderfully at ease. "You look pale, eat some biscuits," she instructed strictly.

"I…" John glanced at Sherlock who was watching him closely. "Okay…thanks. You look well."

"Oh I am dear. Apart from this hip. Plays up something chronic in bad weather. And it is bad weather isn't it? I'd forgotten how much people talk about it," Mrs Hudson placed a tea pot on the table. "Now you remember young man," she said to Sherlock. "Don't go upsetting the installers."

Sherlock flashed her an innocent look that fooled no-one. "John's here," he said, sitting.

She almost cooed at them and John winced, trying not to laugh as he looked at Sherlock, who seemed to be waiting for something.

"Now, I'm off," Mrs Hudson patted her bag. "Appointment with the bank you see. I don't trust all that internet banking; I like to see people's faces before I let them see my money."

From anyone else it might have sounded a little menacing. From her it just sounded sweet and Sherlock nodded, as if understanding her thought process.

"I…Wait," John turned in his seat as she paused at the door they'd just come through. "Did…did everything work out all right? I mean is your husband-"

"Dead as a doornail," she cheeped happily with a nod, then turned and left.

John blinked, staring at the door before letting out a disbelieving laugh. "You kept in touch?" he asked, turning to Sherlock.

"One never knows when they will need tea in a quiet setting," Sherlock said, sitting back.

"Right." All the humour faded instantly. "You're still…unhappy."

"That would be an accurate summation, yes."

Hating the idea, John stared at the table. "I don't want you to be unhappy," he said, his finger tracing a grove in the wood. "But..." he struggled with the next bit, trying to work out how to say it right. "I don't want to compromise either."

When he dared to look up, Sherlock was studying him with some surprise. "That's honest," he said eventually, his voice steady and emotionless.

John nodded. "I…I was talking to this guy, Bill Murray," he took a ragged breath and dropped his hand from the table. "He said we're selfish, for wanting to go on tours and not stay at home. And I…I didn't like the idea that people would see me as the selfish one."

Sherlock's face flickered and his eyes narrowed.

"I…I do expect the worst from you," John admitted. "And that's not fair, especially…especially at the moment. You've been amazing with it and I…" he winced and looked away before forcing himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I've been taking that as something that's owed to me. And it shouldn't be like that. I don't want us to be cheques and balances."

Grey eyes studied him, as if reading him like a forensics journal, before Sherlock leaned forward and took a long sip of tea. With bated breath, John watched every movement.

"You haven't…forgiven what happened," Sherlock said slowly.

"I…" John turned that idea over in his head. "I wouldn't say that…I regret a lot of what happened…how I dealt with it, how we dealt with things. I don't think I was strong enough-"

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock snapped. "You kept us together."

"I don't know if that was the best thing," John said quietly, then instantly regretted his phrasing when Sherlock almost drained of colour. "I'm not saying…I just meant that it might have helped you quit quicker if I had taken a stronger stance."

Sherlock shifted, in relief John suspected, and shook his head. "I love you dearly John, but I do not do something simply because other people want me to."

"Then…why should I be less selfish than you?"

Looking caught, Sherlock tapped his fingers on the mug.

"Sherlock?" John asked when a minute passed without a word.

"Thinking," Sherlock replied absently.

Suddenly overwhelmed with fondness for the idiot, John picked up Sherlock's hand from the mug.

"I need to do this, for me," John said slowly. "I need to let it run its course because if I give this up for you I am terrified I will end up resenting you for it."

"I wouldn't allow-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "I want to have you and the army. I will do whatever I can to have both. But…" he took a deep breath suddenly terrified beyond anything he had ever felt before, as if staring down a cliff face, about to jump. "If it is making you unhappy then I get if…" he swallowed, not at all sure if he would get the words out. "If this…isn't what you want."

"Of course it isn't want I want," Sherlock snapped, utterly missing the point.

He really was the world's most idiotic genius!

"If…being with me is more upsetting than not being with me then-"

Sherlock slammed the mug down so hard John thought it would shatter. "Absolutely not," he snarled. "If you are attempting to end things then it is my great pleasure to tell you I do not agree and it will not be happening."

John stared at him and then laughed weakly in relief. "Thank god," he murmured, almost bowing his head over the table in relief. When he looked up Sherlock seemed strangely vulnerable and nervous. "I know I'm being a complete dick to you but-"

Sherlock cut him off by lurching forward and grabbing him. Seconds later, they were both halfway across the table and yanking at each other's clothes as a mug smashed on the floor.

"Shit," John breathed into the frantic kiss. "The mug-"

"I sent her husband to death row," Sherlock muttered into his mouth. "She'll forgive me."

"She won't if we miss the installers."

Sherlock lifted his head briefly, and then shrugged. "I can multitask," he decided. "Shouting instructions while you fuck me won't be too hard."

"That a challenge?" John asked, pulling at his zip.

Sherlock smirked.

* * *

"What have you done to my bloody mugs?" Mrs Hudson asked, hand on hips, as John just about tucked his shirt back in.

"Uh…" they both looked over at the broken china.

"It was dirty," Sherlock said suddenly, and John shot him a baffled look.

She looked at it, then at them and suddenly smiled. "Did you two make up?" she asked with a knowing glance that made John want to sink into the floor.

They looked at each other and Sherlock sighed looking skittish. "The installers have added the door and window and I tipped them instead of giving them tea." He glanced over his shoulder. "We were down a mug."

John started to snigger and then cackle with laughter as Sherlock smiled politely at Mrs Hudson.

"New mug. Tomorrow," she ordered, as she put her bag down. "Oh, you didn't have any biscuits," she said sounding sad. "I baked them especially."

For some reason that made John laugh even more.

* * *

Outside, Sherlock grabbed at his hand.

"This…" he seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, "We still haven't worked out a solution."

In the darkening street, John stroked the back of Sherlock's wrist with his thumb. "I…I don't know if there is one. A good one," John said, feeling suddenly helpless. "We should…think."

Sherlock looked over his head as he pressed his lips together.

"Look…I have Harry's wedding-" god help him, "-and we're doing the whole weekend…torture thing." John kept stroking Sherlock's skin in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "Maybe we should think-"

"I don't need to think," Sherlock hissed, looking down. "I want you."

John pulled away, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "You're not happy," he said feeling lost. "And I don't know how to make you happy without giving up something I really want to do."

"How long?" Sherlock suddenly demanded. "How much longer?"

"I don't-" John broke of when Sherlock hissed in irritation at his answer. "We work," John muttered. "As long as we don't talk about it."

Sherlock snorted, "The last time we did that you ended up in the army and then in some filthy night club with a needle in your arm." His face twisted at the memory. "I will not risk that again."

John let out an annoyed groan. "I… Jesus. Either we stay together or we don't. We're both fucking stubborn bastards. And I want to stay together," he shrugged helplessly. "I just don't know if you'll be happy with just that."

Sherlock blinked, then darted his eyes away as if considering something.

"What?" John asked. "You have some grand fix it?"

The look John received was…it was like being in an x-ray machine.

"We should think," Sherlock suddenly declared, pressing a kiss to his cheek, his lips brushing John's skin in a way that begged to have John follow it with another kiss.

So he did.

But Sherlock pulled away after a minute or two, looking oddly triumphant. "Go to the harpy," he said, stepping back. "And that beast you call mother. I do hope she enjoys a good wedding."

Stunned, and a little baffled by the sudden change, John nodded. "Are we-"

"We will be," Sherlock smiled that little smug smile of his. "We will be."

* * *

John got the train back to his mum's, utterly dazed by Sherlock's sudden attitude change. It didn't seem like it would bode well, but for the life of him he had no idea what the hell was going on in Sherlock's head.

But then Harry turned up and showed him the wedding dress his money had bought. Then she showed him the bill which had him clutch at his head, utterly confused as to how someone could spend that much on a dress they wouldn't wear again.

"Do you have to wear your uniform?" she asked.

"Yes," John mumbled into his hands as he buried his face in despair. "You've bankrupted me; it's the only good thing I have left."

She laughed. "I'll get you good and drunk the night before," she offered. "You might be able to blank out the entire day."

Weirdly, that sounded like a lovely suggestion. Only his family could make getting blind drunk seem like a favour.

* * *

"You will turn up tomorrow, won't you?"

There was a rather non-committal noise from the other end of the line.

"Don't you dare leave me on my own with my mother," John hissed as he fiddled with the door, balancing the shopping bags and the phone. "I swear I will remember this next Christmas when Mycroft wants a chat."

"You could choose not to go," Sherlock pointed out while in the background John could hear the sirens echoing. "I have an excellent murder investigation here if you're interested."

"You better solve it by two tomorrow," John told him firmly.

"It's boring, it'll be solved in a few hours' time."

"Really? Plenty of time for you to get here."

There was a long, long silence.

"Two o clock," John said, sighing. "Even I wouldn't put you through what's happening tonight."

"Why?"

"Harry's having her hen party at home."

"Why are you attending a hen party?"

"Sherlock...you do understand that there isn't exactly a stag party I can hang on to? I'm stuffed."

* * *

By three in the morning John was lying on the sofa, a cushion over his head as his mother and sister talked.

At least this had gotten his mind off of Sherlock. It was the smallest mercy in the world because he wasn't nearly drunk enough for this. Harry had failed in her sisterly promise. Apparently the Watson-Roberts genes ensured that you could out drink a house full of partiers, no matter who they were.

"I have a question," their mother asked as she sat across the arm chair. "As you're both gay."

If he didn't move maybe she'd think he was asleep.

"Who's the man in your relationships?"

What?

Confused, John pulled the cushion off his face, "Mum…you do know both Sherlock and I are men, and both Clara and Harry are women," he asked, unable to imagine the horrified look that would have been on Sherlock's face had he heard the question.

His mother waved a hand in his direction, "Yes dear, but in the bedroom?"

Oh god almighty.

Horrified John turned to look at Harry who was choking on her wine where she sat crossed legged on the floor. "I'm sorry?" she asked.

As if they were the ones being horrifically rude, their mother huffed at them both. "Well…there needs to be a slot and a tab shall we say. Are you slotters or tabbers?"

Maybe if he aimed it right he could smother himself with the cushion.

Harry cackled, "Well, we both have fingers and we both have er…slots?" she looked at John questioningly.

He shook his head, gaping at her in horror. That was the worst thing you could do. Now their mother would think that it was about to be an actual conversation. To his utter horror their mother looked at him, as if expecting an answer.

"I…same?" he asked. "I don't want this discussion," he whined.

"So you have anal?"

No, there was no way that his mother had just asked that question. Stunned he looked helplessly at Harry, forgetting momentarily that she was the bane of his existence and was of course going to be looking at him with a huge grin on her face.

But, the possibility of married life was mellowing his sister.

A little.

"Mum, think of it like who's on top. Sometimes you fancy lying back and sometimes you fancy going for it. It's like that with the slots and tabs. And some people only do certain positions…which is sort of –"

"Please," John shook his head, "Please change the subject."

"I mean Sherlock is a handsome man. Rude and horrifically inappropriate-"

Inappropriate? Had his mother listened to the last ten minutes of their conversation?

"-but I can imagine he would be quite intense in the bedro-"

"No," John leapt off the sofa. "That's it. I need to…drown in the toilet or something."

"Kathy's in there," Harry replied absently. "In fact, I'm pretty sure the whole house is taken."

Oh god.

John sunk back down. "Mum…remember when you hated us being gay-"

"I'm liberated now," his mother said, sounding proud. "Phil doesn't mind. We can talk about my sex life-"

"No," both he and Harry yelped in horror.

She shrugged, as if it were their loss. "It's been years since I've had champagne," she confessed to them holding up the nearly empty bottle. "I would get so silly on it that your Dad would drink my champagne every time we had it. Poor man hated the stuff," she said with a fond smile as she got up and headed for god only knew where.

Harry looked suddenly nervous as she left and glanced at John.

"You have champagne on every table, don't you?" John asked feeling an air of doom pour over him.

"I didn't know she got like this," Harry said. "Though…to be fair at least this is more entertaining than red wine or lager."

"Put her on the vodka," John hissed.

"You can't give the mother of the bride vodka," Harry hissed back.

"Then be the groom," John snapped, sitting back, folding his arms.

"I will if you'll be the bride when you get married," Harry teased.

He flipped her the finger, then reached for his mum's bottle.

May as well get used to the taste apparently.

* * *

Sherlock looked good in a suit. Always did, which was probably why he wore them most of the time now.

It was still delicious to look at.

"We appear to be outnumbered," Sherlock muttered as they stood outside of the room in the hotel.

"Does that surprise you?" John asked.

"I'm not entirely sure," Sherlock replied frankly, looking around. "One should always be careful about assuming stereotypes are correct-"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

John took a deep breath. "Have you…thought? You know, about us?"

"Afterwards," Sherlock pulled him in close. "If we survive. Think of it as incentive," he added, ducking his head to nuzzle at the skin under John's ear.

John mulled that over, "You mean if I don't kill Harry, you don't kill my mother and my bank balance survives Harry's dress?"

"How much did she-"

"Don't," John muttered. "Please, don't make me think about it again."

* * *

The wedding, surprisingly, was fun!

Standing on ceremony had never been a flaw of Harry's and she and Clara seemed to embrace the idea that the wedding was to be enjoyed. In the end they let their Mum at the champagne as it seemed to mellow her slightly. Phil spent most of the night with his head in his hands and apologising to everyone they saw.

But, to John's amazement, his mum smiled over at Phil halfway through and calmed down a bit. The next time he saw them they were snuggled together, their chairs pushed as close as possible as they talked quietly, smiles on their faces.

The man was god himself. He had to be.

"You enjoyed it," Sherlock said as they sat outside, getting some fresh air on one of the benches.

"And remained almost sober," John added, looking at his third beer of the night. "I'm thinking this might be a night of miracles."

Sherlock smiled and looked out over the grounds.

"So how was the case?" John asked, leaning into him and enjoying the feel of him.

"Disappointing," Sherlock admitted. "Which was rather unfortunate, considering."

"Considering?" John asked, staring up at the stars, eyes closed as he breathed the evening in.

"It was my last one."

John smiled. "There'll be another one."

"I hope so, but not for some time."

"Why's that?" God he was so comfortable.

"I'm moving."

Again? "That's nice."

"With you."

John nodded, then stopped, eyes opening suddenly startled. Sherlock looked down, seeming oddly amused.

"With me?" John asked blankly.

"There's no law against moving to another country? I'm sure the army could hire me as a contractor, or I could find something to do there. A whole new place to explore, to learn. They may even have a few crimes to solve."

John stared, blank. Utterly blank.

Sherlock cupped his face. "It's the perfect solution," he said eagerly. "Don't you see?"

"But…" John tried to clear his throat. "I… we… that's a lot for you to give up."

"I want something in return," Sherlock said, looking supremely pleased with himself.

"You do?" John asked, still not functioning.

"I hate the word boyfriend," Sherlock said. "In fact I do not wish to hear it again."

"That…that's your condition?"

"No." Sherlock smirked. "My condition is that we register for a civil partnership. That we marry before we leave next week."

Oh.

* * *

Next Week!


	12. The End

**The End**

Chapter Summary: In light of Sherlock's proposal, their relationship changes.

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry - I deliberately didn't reply to reviews this time as I didn't want to spoil anything and I'm a motor mouth :)

Also, on a03 (archive of our own) I have posted some deleted scenes from Back in the Day and the reasons why they weren't use, if anyone's interested here! The link is "archiveofourown"."org"/"works"/639056"/chapters"/1158331 (Just remove the speech marks!)

* * *

**End of August 2008**

Seconds after he slammed the hotel door behind him it banged open as Sherlock came storming in after him.

Almost shaking, John continued into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He grabbed onto the edge of the sink almost hyperventilating.

What the hell had just happened?

There was a click as the lock on the bathroom door went and Sherlock flung it open with a resounding crash.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Sherlock demanded.

John struggled to breathe, flexing his fingers.

He needed air.

He needed space.

"John?"

"No."

Sherlock's breath hitched again with hurt. "I don't accept that," he snapped.

"Of course you don't," John muttered at the sink, feeling sick when he shook his head.

"It is the perfect solution-"

"You don't get married as a solution!" John shouted at him, standing up suddenly and staggering from the head rush. "You don't get married because we're discussing ending our relationship."

"It is not ending," Sherlock snarled, pointing his finger brutally at John. "That is not happening."

Pained, John lifted his hands to his head. "You can't just up and move your life-"

"I am."

"Sherlock," John almost felt like screaming in frustration. "How do you not get this? Marriage is not a quick fix-"

"Do you want to marry me?"

John lowered his hands, watching Sherlock carefully before dipping his gaze to the floor.

"I don't know," he confessed. "I don't…" suddenly angry he looked back up. "You just…you can't just spring it on me like this," he snapped.

"It's a surprise," Sherlock argued. "That is what you are meant to do, is it not?"

"In romcoms," John argued. "Not…" he shook his head and walked over to the table. "I need a drink," he muttered.

"This cannot have been a surprise," Sherlock muttered, following him. "We have been together for long enough, surely you knew this would eventually happen."

No. He hadn't thought Sherlock would care, and then when Sherlock had dropped hints…

He'd ignored them.

Pouring himself a generous helping of left over champagne, John downed it as quick as he could, longing for the bite of something stronger. He fiddled with the glass in his hand as he stared at the bottle, trying to squash the urge to pour any more out.

"Why is it important?" he asked quietly. "It's not…it's not a real marriage. We can't have one of those."

Sherlock flinched a little. "It's…it's what we have," he said screwing up his nose. "And I want…I want the world to know you are mine."

And wasn't that a bloody typical Sherlock Holmes response? But John almost smiled at the sentiment and stared down at the hand he had braced on the table, trying to imagine a ring there. Trying to work out if he liked the image.

As if sensing he was wavering, Sherlock pressed on. "I want a promise that we will have a life together some day."

They would. Just not…John looked away towards the window and the room's reflection within it. "You can't just…" John cleared his throat. "You can't just leave London."

"Can," Sherlock argued, folding his arms.

Groaning, John bent over his hands on the table, trying to scramble his thoughts together. A cool hand tugged at his and he glanced up to see Sherlock crouched in front of him, his face level with the surface of the table as he stared at John hesitantly.

"I…" he blinked and seemed to steel himself. "…was hoping to avoid this, but…" he let out a ragged breath. "You are…you are what is important, John. The cases, the work, everything else comes second. I can find a puzzle anywhere. I can't have you anywhere and so there seems to be a logical solution. And one I will willingly do to keep you."

John stared at Sherlock, at the determined gaze highlighted in the dim light of the room and was struck with a sudden memory of himself, years ago in Sherlock's room, begging for forgiveness, willing to do anything to keep Sherlock.

Sherlock had said no.

When had this happened? When had they swapped like this? When had John become the selfish one, letting Sherlock stew in his own fears unable to question and plea.

Unequal.

Slowly, John pulled back feeling sick.

"John?" Sherlock sounded baffled.

Stumbling back, John shook his head, trying to clear it. "You…you are willing to do that? To give up what you've built? What you are now?"

"Yes," Sherlock tilted his chin. "If I must."

Oh god. John felt himself blink away dampness from his eyes.

When the hell had this happened?

"John?" Sherlock stood close now. "You're hyperventilating," he said sounding worried.

"Have you even thought this through?" John breathed, clutching at him. "At all? It's a country that doesn't exactly welcome gay people with open arms. And the army isn't doing cartwheels of joy over it. I'll be out on patrols and missions, I might barely be in…and you want to give up your career, London, everything, for that?"

"For you," Sherlock replied fiercely.

John grabbed at his shirt. "I will be the only thing in your life," he said, almost shaking him. "How do you not get-"

"You are the only thing that matters," Sherlock yelled at him. "And I am not losing you."

John felt something in him shatter at that and he twisted his fingers in the shirt beneath his fingers, sure that he would always be able to feel this moment for the rest of his life as he struggled with the words he didn't want to say.

That he never wanted to say.

Raising his eyes to Sherlock he could see it; the dawning realisation that Sherlock was so fiercely fighting against.

"You already have," John whispered, trying not to cry.

Sherlock shook his head and grabbed at John frantically. "No, no. I do not accept-"

John let Sherlock grab at him, shake him, as he felt something crack inside. The dam he had built to convince himself that everything was fine.

It wasn't. It hadn't been. Probably from the moment he had moved in with Sherlock all those years ago and Sherlock had made his choice to still get high. From the moment he had almost given up what he wanted, just because of Sherlock's mood.

From the moment he had signed up to run away from it all.

Sherlock had him by the shoulder, tugging at his shirt as if he could shake sense into John from sheer will power alone. Stunned by the ache of it all, John just let him, limp as a rag doll hating the sight of Sherlock's terrified face and looking past him to avoid seeing the moment when Sherlock realised he couldn't erase what John had said by stubbornness alone.

John closed his eyes to the sight and then pressed them shut tighter when he heard and felt Sherlock fall to his knees, still grabbing at his shirt.

"No," Sherlock whispered, pressing his face into John's stomach. "You can't… this can't…"

'I'm sorry' he wanted to say. 'I'm so so sorry.'

Instead he just stood, almost shell shocked by what was happening as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"I don't know how to fix it," he whispered brokenly.

Sherlock grabbed at him, pulling him down by clumsy grabs to his shirt and skin until they were both kneeling on the floor and Sherlock was cupping John's face with his hands. "I can, I'll fix it," he promised fiercely. "Let me work out-"

"How?" John asked, leaning to press his forehead against Sherlock's. "Tell me how."

All he heard was Sherlock's ragged breathing. "I…there's a way. I just have to find it-"

John shook his head, "We…we've gone too far. Ignored too much-"

"No," Sherlock pulled back and ducked his head to meet John's gaze. Those silver eyes where bright with tears. "No. We can do this, we can manage. Others can-"

"Others haven't ignored problems," John whispered. "Others…I shouldn't have run to the army, Sherlock. I should have ended it and we might have… by now we might be-"

"Then stop running," Sherlock begged. "Come home."

John shook his head, "If…I don't know…" he sobbed out a laugh. "All or nothing Sherlock; we're too alike with that. One of us has to give, one of us has to…I don't know…be the side kick. And you'd be shit at it," he cupped Sherlock's cheek, "And I don't want to do it yet. I can't, not after…not after the drugs, all the illegal stuff. I need this before I can do it again and…we can't…it's all or nothing."

"I promise," Sherlock breathed, looking ice-white now. "I swear, never again, John. You come first-"

"No," John stroked a thumb over his cheek. "We know I won't. And we know you won't.

"This isn't," Sherlock shook his head, "this can't…"

John pressed his nose into Sherlock's shoulder breathing him in. It was tempting, so tempting to try, to have Sherlock out with him, to see him just a little bit more than he did now-

But god, what if he got shot? What if he were injured? Sherlock would have given up everything, every single thing, only to be left burdened or alone. To be trapped or stranded.

He could never, ever do that to him. And he wasn't ready to come home, to be the boring one. To be the sensible one who kept everything together. He didn't want to earn the food and bill money while Sherlock got to live his dream, not yet. In a few years, maybe. But not yet.

But this life, their relationship; Sherlock was on the brink of throwing his life away for them, for what could, if they were realistic, amount to nothing but misery.

"I…" he took a deep ragged breath. "I think it is," he whispered.

An arm clutched at him, keeping him pinned to Sherlock and John was in no mood to fight it. If he didn't move, if he stayed in Sherlock's arms it meant it hadn't happened, so instead he clutched at Sherlock just as hard.

Sherlock shook his head, muttering a prayer of _no_ that made John's heart break even further.

* * *

They still sat on the floor against the table, holding each other, but a little more calm.

John stared at their intertwined fingers, trying to burn the image into his mind.

He didn't know what to say. For the first time in years he had no idea what to say to Sherlock.

"Your mother will be expecting you for breakfast," Sherlock said in a flat voice.

John shook his head. "If I go…" he stared at their hands, squeezing. "I can't, not yet."

Sherlock said nothing.

"What are you thinking?" John asked softly.

Sherlock's gaze skittered over the chair for a moment, and then he shook his head. "Nothing to be shared," he said eventually.

"You won't…you're not going to do anything…" John frowned, hating that he couldn't get the words out.

"Stupid?" Sherlock questioned in that same awful tone. "No. I believe that time has been and gone."

"I'm sorry," John mumbled. "I didn't know you were going to…"

"Propose?" Sherlock seemed to have no problem saying the word. "You didn't want to know," he said still staring at nothing. "That probably should have been the first clue," he said dully.

"You're angry," John said, not even sure what he was trying to do.

In response, Sherlock let out a rather bitter laugh as he tipped his head back. "Not the word I would use," he said tightly, even as his fingers gripped John's a little harder.

John shook himself, not even knowing why he wanted to talk, wanted to ask. Habit? Hope that they would suddenly find an answer? Wanting to ignore it all again?

"This isn't happening," he whispered, staring at the door. Next to him, Sherlock suddenly turned, pressing his lips into John's hair as he shook his head.

"You want this, not me," Sherlock whispered. "Stay."

And there it was. The push, the burst of anger that he needed. Slowly he pulled his head from Sherlock's lips and looked at him.

"We did this," he said, his voice sounding like iron to his ears. "We messed this up. Don't blame me because I'm the one who finally acknowledged it."

"Do you want me to thank you?" Sherlock snarled.

"You've given me no choice," John sat back, lifting himself up using the table.

"You could have said yes."

John paused in the doorway. "No," he said, pressing his lips together. "You could have said no, all those years ago, you could have said no."

And with that he closed the door and nearly collapsed against it.

Not once in the three hours that he spent against the door, did Sherlock come out of the hotel room.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Sorry, sorry, sorry**

* * *

**Next Chapter: Who did you get in the divorce?**


	13. Who did you get in the divorce?

**Who did you get in the divorce?**

Chapter Summary: Those around Sherlock and John deal with the end of their relationship.

* * *

**September 2008**

"You have got to be fucking having me on," Andy snapped, slamming his beer down.

Mike shook his head. "Nope," he said with the slightest amount of trepidation.

Andy leaned forward, as if to examine Mike for a fever or a sudden life changing rash, before turning to look at Paul who had pulled a face.

"And you're happy about it?" Andy asked doubtfully.

"Ecstatic," Mike nodded.

"A baby?" Andy asked, determined to have this clarified. "You know; the eating, shitting crying machines."

"Wouldn't go to him for names," Paul said grinning.

"So…" Mike looked at him. "I'm not going to get a congratulations from you then?"

"Are you fuck*!" Andy shifted. Then relented. "Maybe. If it's a girl-"

"You are not shagging my daughter," Mike folded his arms pointedly.

"I'd wait 'till she was eighteen," Andy threw up his hands. "Jesus, I'm not sick!"

"And you thought he would be annoying," Paul grinned. "Where's John anyway?"

"Dunno. He was at his sister's wedding last weekend. Can't believe I wasn't invited," Andy complained.

"Yeah," Mike took a sip, "Flaming mystery that."

"And Sherlock?"

"You gotta be kiddin'," Andy grinned. "Sherlock doesn't appear unless it's a crime or the end of the world when John's back. It's like the world stops and starts with him. Must be a fucking amazing shag."

Mike made an annoyed sound, "Did you tell John to meet us here?" he asked Paul again. "I might not get a chance to do this anymore."

"You could bring the baby here," Andy offered. "Mate of mine reckons that if you give a baby a bit of Baileys-"

"No," Mike said flatly. "My child is not a drinking game."

"Spoilsport," Andy complained.

* * *

In the end, Andy went to Sherlock's flat, armed with the knowledge that if he managed to get one out he'd get free beer until ten. If he managed both it was an open bar all night.

Couldn't say fairer than that.

"Oy," he yelled, banging on the door. "You pair of shag bunnies need to get to the pub. There's… babies and drink and I'm pretty sure we could drum up a gang to have a good old shoot out if that would help interest the pair of you."

He waited.

Nothing.

Rolling his eyes he dug into his pockets, trying to work out what key was Sherlock's in the hallway light. "I have keys and if I open this door and see a naked bobbing arse I swear to god-"

The door yanked open and Andy nearly dropped his keys at the state of Sherlock.

"What's happened?" he breathed in horror. "Sherlock, what-"

"Give me the key," Sherlock said, looking as if he were struggling to focus. "Now."

In the pit of his stomach, something terrible started to brew. "Are you high?"

Sherlock started to laugh, an empty hollow sound that echoed down the hall. "Your presence is no longer required. It is done."

"Sherlock, what the hell-"

"We're finished," Sherlock breathed and Andy winced at the realisation that Sherlock wasn't high but utterly pissed. "Over," he added, rolling the word around his tongue. "Unless he suddenly turns up before Friday," Sherlock swayed.

"Finished?" Andy blinked. "But…That's not…don't be so fucking stupid, as if you two-"

"I proposed, he said no, then said no to me moving with him, then said no to us," Sherlock opened his arms as if the concept was baffling. "I'm rather sure that implies we are finished."

Andy stared at him, then caught a glimpse of the utter wreckage behind Sherlock.

"Get in," he said, pushing at Sherlock gently. "Let's make sure you don't accidently die from this shit heap."

"But John and I are over," Sherlock exaggerated every word. "You don't have to be here."

"I know that you great wanker," Andy muttered, picking up a can tentatively. "I never had to be here."

Sherlock cocked his head blankly. "But John isn't here."

"John who?" Andy said turning to him, raising an eyebrow. "I've got two mates and one's just fucked the other over and I hardly see him now. The other one I see nearly every week and at least he gives me a hand. And can annoy Scotland Yard more than anyone I know. You tell me genius, why the fuck would I be anywhere else but here?"

Sherlock stared at him for an age and then blinked. "Your language truly is appalling when you drink," he scolded.

"Tosser," Andy grinned.

It was only when Sherlock stumbled into the shower that Andy texted Mike.

_Go to John's mum's, quick as you can._

_Y? They there?_

_They've split up. Sherlock proposed and John said no._

There was a long pause, then his phone rang.

"You're kidding," Mike said, sounding as baffled as Andy felt. "There's no way-"

"They have," Andy said, keeping an eye on the bathroom door. "Have you got John? If not, I think he's still in touch with Gay Alf-"

"No, I've got him. You're with Sherlock?"

"Yeah," Andy took a breath. "We're so fucked," he whispered.

* * *

"Sherlock and John aren't here yet?" Anthea asked as she sat down at the table.

"No," Violet leaned forward. "And between you and me, I think I know why," she added eagerly.

Anthea eyed her, "Violet, without being explicit, I think we all know why they aren't here."

"The ring's gone," Violet said with glee. "They went to the wedding last weekend and no-one's seen them since."

It would be wonderful Violet thought, brimming with excitement, to see Sherlock finally happy, especially now that Mycroft had found someone.

She just hoped it wouldn't take him as long to get moving as it had Sherlock.

Anthea raised an eyebrow, looking amused as she went to take a sip of her water.

She paused before the glass made it to her lips, a frown marring the line between her eyebrows. Curious, Violet turned to see a very pale Mycroft.

"What is it?" Anthea asked, putting the water down. "Is it The Isle of White again? I swear to god they are getting on my-"

"Sherlock and John have gone their separate ways," Mycroft blinked down at his phone as if he couldn't work out what had just happened. "Andrew just phoned me."

"But…" Violet shook her head, baffled by the idea. "They… Sherlock…I thought he was going to propose."

Mycroft's face hardened. "He did," he said angrily. "John said no."

* * *

Her son was a mess. A complete mess. He stunk of beer and whisky, even with the shower he had so obviously been bundled in before they'd arrived.

"I don't understand," Sherlock whispered to her, looking worryingly blank. "I…offered…I don't know what went wrong."

She pulled him to her, knowing how shattered he must be that he didn't even raise a token protest.

"Oh darling," she said softly. "You didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes these things, they happen and we can't predict them."

He buried his face in her shoulder as she kissed his hair.

* * *

"Mike?" Harry leaned against the door wearing a chequered shirt that showed off some damned good legs. "How've you been?"

"I…" he looked past her into the hall. "Aren't you meant to be on honeymoon?"

"No, I just paid for one hundred people to eat," Harry rolled her eyes. "Mum and Phil have gone to stay with his parents to give Clara and I a week in a big house," she winked. "Lots and lots of rooms to christen."

"Right," Mike stammered a little, trying not to picture that too hard. "Where's John?"

Harry gave him a look. "You think I'm inviting my little brother to stay during my shag fest? He's got his own to attend to-"

"Harry…" Mike stared at her. "John and Sherlock split up."

Harry gaped and then paled. "Split up?"

"Yeah, Sherlock's at his place; he's a mess but…" he licked his lips nervously. "John isn't here then?"

Harry shook her head, "He hasn't gone to Mum either," she added, looking worried now.

"All right," Mike swiped a hand through his hair. "Stay here, I'll try some other people. He might come here-"

"Would you?" Harry asked frankly. "If you'd just broken up with your missus, would you come to honeymoon central?"

* * *

Why the hell had he bought this place again?

Gay Alf looked around the dance floor, wincing at the sight of the Wednesday crowd.

It wasn't looking good for profits.

Pulling a face at the less than busy bar, he spanked Rob on the arse," Go do something," he suggested.

"Something or someone?"

Gay Alf shrugged, "If you think a show'll draw a crowd then I'm all for it. But you could always clean the bar."

Rob snorted and grinned at him. "New face in," he said, nodding at the end of the bar. "Could put on a show with him."

Gay Alf followed his gaze and resisted the urge to smile.

"Not a new face," he scolded. "Besides, you try dancing with that and you'll have Holmes to answer to."

Rob's eyes widened a bit, "That's John Watson? Nice!"

"Taken," Gay Alf corrected. "I'll put on a show with him, you go clean-"

He trailed off as he caught a glimpse of John's face.

"Fuck," he muttered.

* * *

"So," Gay Alf asked, tilting John's head in the back room to get a look at the bruise. "What's the other guy look like?"

John wouldn't meet his eye. "A twat," he said, sounding tired.

"What he do?"

John shrugged.

"Can I at least know the story before you know who storms in here with that fucking coat of his? Never know whether to be intimidated or horny as fuck."

Instead of the laughter he'd been expecting, John made a miserable sound and bent his head, hiding his face from view.

"John?"

John looked up, eyes red, and just shook his head. "It's over," he whispered.

Sighing, Gay Alf wrapped an arm around John's shoulders and let him sob into his chest.

"You sure?" he asked.

John nodded. "I did it. Even if…he'll never forgive me for it."

Gay Alf stroked John's hair soothingly, not really sure what to say to that.

* * *

"Jesus," Mike sat back, looking over at Gay Alf. "I mean…fuck."

John nodded sadly. "I just…he'd be miserable. And what if…if the worst happened. If I died or was injured-"

"He didn't get that?"

John glanced over at Gay Alf and then shook his head.

"You didn't tell him," Gay Alf sighed, "Did you. You never explained why you wouldn't let him come with you."

"He'd ignore it," John muttered into his drink. "Argue," he shook his head. "How could…how could I refuse to come back and then demand he risk everything to be left with nothing?"

"That should have been his choice," Mike said quietly.

"You know Sherlock," John slumped back. "All or nothing."

Over his head, Gay Alf looked at Mike. "You know that you're risking that now?" Mike asked slowly. "John," he leaned forward. "The Holmes family will rally round him, our mates are gonna see him more than you…if something happens…" Mike hesitated, not really wanting to completely shatter John, "Mate, you could be stuck with your family."

John huffed out a miserable laugh. "That is completely my choice to make," he said.

* * *

**End of September 2008**

After ignoring Lestrade's calls for three weeks, Sherlock suddenly deigned to appear without warning on the murder of a young girl and practically tortured the boyfriend into a confession.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Lestrade demanded, almost throwing him into the next room.

"I got the result-"

"Like that?" Lestrade breathed, horrified. "Jesus, you've always been a socially inept little git, but that? That was cruel-"

"He killed her-"

"By accident," Lestrade said, "And that's not the point, the point is that was so far over the line that you're in danger of being arrested yourself-"

Sherlock laughed, dangerously pitched and Lestrade grabbed at him, trying to see his pupils.

"You're high," he whispered, letting go of Sherlock's head in shock. "What the hell is wrong with you-"

"I'm getting the job done," Sherlock sneered. "Solving your pathetic little crime-"

"You made three officers cry before you even went in. That's not getting the job-"

"Then pick better people instead of these officers that cry at the drop of a hat. Sentiment is a dangerous weakness Inspector; I am sparing you from difficult days."

The tone, the spat words, the slight tremor…"Sherlock…where's John?"

"Gone," Sherlock breathed. "Back to his precious war," he added before Lestrade's stomach stopped plunging at the thought of the eager kid dead.

"You…You broke up?" Lestrade tried not to show how bad that was.

Sherlock lifted his hands and shrugged. "All things end," he smiled, looking almost as if he were struggling to focus.

Jesus, it felt like kicking a dog when it was down, but to not do it… "This will end if you turn up here high again," Lestrade threatened, steeling himself. "Next time you're in the cells and you won't be asked back."

"Liar," Sherlock breathed. "You need me."

"That doesn't mean I won't stop this," Lestrade sucked in a breath. "You should know how that works now."

Sherlock's face froze into an unpleasant sneer. "Does it rile you detective, that the one good thing in your life, the one thing you've excelled at is because I have helped you?"

God, it took everything he had not to punch him. Knowing that anything he said would simply continue the conversation, Lestrade clamped his mouth shut and nodded towards the door.

"You'll call," Sherlock decided, looking triumphant. "You know you can't do it without me."

Lestrade waited until Sherlock slammed the door behind him and then took a breath before drawing out the number John had once told him to call if Sherlock ever showed up high.

"Mycroft Holmes?"

* * *

**December 2008**

Sherlock didn't come around for three months. The annoying journalist that had occasionally turned up turned up a hell of a lot more though, saying he was keeping Sherlock sane.

When Sherlock did return there was nothing warm or pleasant about him, as if he'd deleted the need to be polite and considerate, such as it had been.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked Andy one night after they'd finished and Sherlock had stormed off the crime scene.

Andy hesitated, "Just didn't work out."

"Andy."

Andy glanced around and sighed, "Keep it to yourself, yeah?"

Lestrade nodded.

"Sherlock asked John to marry him, and he said no."

"Shit," Lestrade winced. "Bloody hell I…how's he coping?"

Andy shrugged. "Won't talk about it. At all. He had a few weeks where he barely got out of bed and then…" Andy shook his head. "He's getting a bit better now, a little easier but…Jesus it was hard work for a while there."

"And John?"

Andy shook his head. "Not a name permitted around Sherlock. Which isn't easy given how fucking common that name is."

"Have you heard anything?"

"Nope."

Lestrade shot him a doubtful look.

"Seriously haven't," Andy said. "Please, he'd take one look and see that I knew. None of us that see him often talk to John now. It's just…it's easier all round. John's out there; he's got his army mates and one or two from uni. He's fine. If there was a problem, we'd hear."

Lestrade took a sip. "They seemed good, they seemed solid," he muttered.

Andy clicked his tongue.

"Can't believe John said no," Lestrade continued, trying to pry something more out of Andy.

"Well, there you are," Andy shrugged. "Even the good guys are wankers at times."

* * *

*I'm not sure if this might be a regional/British thing but "are you fuck" sort of means "Are you hell?" or "like hell you are!"

**Upcoming Chapters:**

Soldier one

Drowning

All good things.


	14. Soldier On

Soldier On

Chapter Summary: John's Interlude

* * *

The first time he had sex after Sherlock, John was drunk out of his mind after standing at the airport all alone.

Never, ever had that happened before.

It would always happen now. There would be no-one to welcome him back and kiss him, to complain about the idiots at Starbucks and whine about autopsy procedure.

Just…normal. Ordinary. Plain. He was back to John Watson; unremarkable.

The thought made him itch and squirm.

No. He might be a complete and utter shit at relationships and at everything else but this…he had chosen this…So this was the thing he had to succeed at; this was the thing he had to focus on.

Everything else was secondary.

He just needed…comfort. That was it. A body, skin, sex.

* * *

She was beautiful, exotic and eager.

Her eyes were too dark, her body too soft and she kissed wrong. He couldn't find the rhythm he wanted-

He wasn't having sex with Sherlock.

It was a disaster. She got off (not in the good way) and yelled at him, some in Spanish and some of it he got.

* * *

He didn't want to think, he didn't want to have time to dwell on what had happened. Instead he threw himself into his new role, eager to carve himself a life that was his, where he wasn't Sherlock's John.

After all, Sherlock's John had shattered Sherlock. He didn't want to be him. He wanted to be…someone else. Someone reliable and ready, someone exciting and free. He didn't want choices; he wanted to know what he was doing and what the outcome was meant to be. He didn't want options and chaos. Even giving orders was fine, because there was a goal, one that he understood and knew he needed to achieve.

* * *

The second time he had sex after Sherlock was a bit of an accident. She was upset, angry and wanted him to fuck her hard.

He obliged. He didn't see her face and it erred on the uncomfortable side of roughness. They didn't talk, they didn't laugh, and they didn't lie with each other afterwards.

Stress relief, she called it.

Fucking worked.

* * *

Casual sex became an odd crutch. To be fair, in the army you couldn't exactly get off your tits drunk and John needed a lot to get drunk now, but sex? It wasn't a good idea to stick it where you worked, but John found others outside his squad, of his rank or mercenaries who didn't give a shit.

He was charming and honest about it. He had no interest in romance because fuck it, if he couldn't make it work with Sherlock then there was no one he could make it work for and he had no intention of breaking another heart again.

For months he stuck to women where he could find them; the encounters few and far between but enough to tide him over. Casual nothingness that didn't touch him at all.

Then it was Christmas and he just about managed. Then Sherlock's birthday.

He went out and got fucked.

* * *

It was a strange dichotomy. At work, in the army, he was exceeding expectations. Moran, when he popped up, didn't seem to regret the decision.

Any of them.

And outside of that…stress relief.

That was all it was.

Stress relief.

* * *

Mike sent him a postcard when his daughter was born and made no mention of Sherlock.

* * *

He had a few cards and presents from back home for his birthday. Harry's was wildly inappropriate and John suffered the embarrassment for days after he opened the leaflet for a penis enlargement kit.

Still, she gained a reputation without any of them having met her.

Andy sent nothing. And there was a cold silence from the Holmes family. Not that he had expected anything different but after so many years it was a sudden ache when he realised that he hadn't just lost Sherlock.

He'd lost Mycroft and Violet too. And Anthea.

That night he stayed in the practise yard as long as possible before he hunted someone down and got drunk with them.

It kept him able.

* * *

He loved what he did.

He loved the thrill of it, the danger, the fact that he was actively making a difference. To a boy who had once watched his step-father hit his mother and sister, it was cathartic to know that he had the power to choose, the ability to help, the strength to stop something.

That he could be an unmovable force and a sanctuary for someone in need. That he could defend and heal, that he could attack and decide what was acceptable when you needed to protect.

And in July the world clicked into place when he overheard a few newbies talking about _The_ John Watson.

No add ons.

On his own and by himself he had carved out a piece of the world that was his and it was one that was worth something.

He was good at something that was completely and wholly just his.

And after that, most nights, it was easier to push the thoughts of Sherlock away. And on the nights where they snuck up?

He always found a way to relieve the stress, even if it meant he'd be fucking sore the next day.

* * *

Next up: Drowning - Sherlock's Interlude


	15. Drowning

Drowning

Sherlock's Interlude

* * *

Warnings for drug use and a rather depressing chapter!

Thank you again for the fab feedback :D

* * *

How he managed to get back home, Sherlock would never know. Months later he would think of it only as proof that he knew every road, every train and bus like the back of his hand and could go anywhere without conscious effort.

_No._

How? How? How had he missed it?

How?

If he hadn't asked, if he hadn't been so consumed by want and hope or by love and happy endings, perhaps they would be going back together; he and John. Teasing on the train, laughing down the street.

He'd never touch him again, never cover John's body with his own and meld them together-

Someone else would get to do that.

The thought nearly made him vomit. He'd been so many of John's firsts, so many of his onlys and suddenly he was expected to share that with someone else, some faceless person-

What if John fell in love with them? Married them? Fucked them?

His head was spinning; he couldn't decide which would be worse.

All. All of them would be worse.

* * *

Years ago he had decided never to do the drugs again. For hours he had traced the marks on John's arm, committing every single one to memory as his penance.

_See?_ He wanted to ask John, _See what I'm doing? Come and stop me. _

The door never banged open, the phone never rang.

He idly toyed with the idea of recreating John's marks on his own skin. A binding of sorts like the fucking rings in his drawer were meant to have been. He half hoped that if he did it that somehow, as far away as John might be, he might feel it and know.

Stupid.

* * *

One night he threw the coat in the back of the wardrobe, hating the sight of it.

He hated even more that he reached out for it every time he left the flat.

If that wasn't a fitting metaphor, he didn't know what was.

* * *

"Drugs?" Andy sighed, sliding down the wall to sit with Sherlock on the pavement. "Thought you'd been there and done that?"

It was useless. No matter how often he did it, he could never decide what he wanted; to remember with crystal clear clarity, to hallucinate and pretend or to dive down into oblivion and forget.

Andy would fade. Soon enough he would vanish and get frustrated.

* * *

But he didn't.

Instead it was Andy that turned up with Mycroft when Sherlock tried to drown every feeling that was tearing him apart in a cocktail of drugs and alcohol. Beer was no good – every type reminded him of John, Champagne of Valentine's Day and Harry's wedding, red wine of the dinner John had first had with Sherlock's parents, whisky was the colour of his skin and hair when sunlight poured over it and vodka was breathless nights of John at university laughing as he stumbled into the tiny, filthy house and snacked on custard creams dipped in salsa.

Gin. Gin did it. Mother's ruin, wasn't that what they called it? The drink of those who regretted and despaired over their life choices.

Ecstasy was a useless, a fake and hollow lie that he despised. It wasn't that he wanted to feel again, it was that he never wanted to feel anything. Never again did he want to take the chance of soaring and ignoring fact for fiction. Cocaine…it still seemed wrong. The high, the rush. He didn't want it.

But heroin? Heroin made it stop. Made it all stop. Made it easier to pretend it hadn't cut him in two to lose John, made it easier to build up walls to defend against anything like that ever happening again.

* * *

"What about work?" Andy asked, sitting behind the door as Sherlock vomited into the toilet. "And Jesus, do you have to be so fucking loud when you do that? Makes me want to puke myself."

"The work?" Sherlock asked, gasping against the porcelain of the toilet.

"Yeah. You know, working with the police who I can then bribe because I can put you in a slightly worse mood than usual and they hate dealing with that. You wouldn't believe how many tips I get with that threat."

The Work. The thing he had offered to give up.

_No_.

The one thing that could never leave him. There would always be murder, always a need to solve it.

"The Work," he repeated, tipping back and away as he flushed the vomit. "Why not?"

* * *

Lestrade threw him off the crime scene when he realised Sherlock was high.

"It occurs to me," he smirked at Mycroft as he was bundled into the back of the car. "You win."

"Do I?" Mycroft asked, sliding in next to him. "Because you smell like a bin and only I have to endure it?"

"I have nothing," Sherlock laughed, "Nothing that is mine to keep and control. And you…you have cars and people and her." He let his head loll. "You win. We swapped. I had it all and now…now…" he shook his head like a dog trying to get dry. "You signed him up."

Mycroft looked away. "I never…I never wanted this Sherlock."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, staring at nothing as the car moved. "I offered him everything and it wasn't good enough-"

"He wasn't good enough," Mycroft replied in a steely voice. "He wasn't good enough, Sherlock."

* * *

The second time he went to rehab was worse than the first. Before he'd had a reason, had seen the consequences of his actions and been stunned into sobriety.

This…this was just unending. There was no light, no reward, no John.

Nothing. Just an endless sea of pointlessness.

* * *

One of his fellow addicts watched one of those soap things. An Australian one where everyone felt the need to raise their voice at the end of a sentence as if in question.

If there would be one mercy in life, it would be escaping the program.

"How can she not see what he's like?" one asked.

"Blinded by love," another joked.

* * *

Blinded by love.

He could see the way someone was killed, the clues, the reasons, a life's history from a sweep of a crime scene. But he'd been distracted, his focus split.

What if he'd only been operating on part of his full capacity? They said that humans used only a small percentage of their brain. What if, blinded by emotions and sentiment, he hadn't really been focusing?

Blinded by love?

Weakness.

* * *

Control.

He needed it.

Before he'd simply not realised that he was hungry or tired. Now it became a point to prove; a challenge.

If he could control his body, ignore it and focus it on what truly mattered than it would follow that he could control his heart.

And that he could eliminate such useless ideas.

* * *

It was like honing a blade, he supposed. Before he had been sharper than most but that hardly meant he was the best he could be. And so what if people might get cut by it, if he was no longer flexible and on occasion dull enough to weather a touch? He had a purpose and the purpose was not to be sweet and liked or loved; it was to think, to solve.

"You've changed you know," Andy said one day as they sat outside a court; Andy waiting to interview the accused and Sherlock waiting to badger a DI.

"I am aware of that," Sherlock replied.

"Happy with it?"

"I am better at what I do."

Andy leaned back and crossed his legs, "Well, at least you ain't lying," he muttered and took a sip of his coffee.

* * *

"You know you've become a right wanker since you lost that boyfriend of yours," Donovan hissed at him.

Boyfriend?

"I wasn't aware I'd had one," he replied easily.

Lestrade looked panicked.

He'd never called Him that. Ever.

* * *

"_Partners? Like cowboys?" John asked, deliciously sleepy as he curled up with him._

"_As you wish," he replied, oddly amused._

* * *

He needed to stop dreaming. Remembering. It was as if John haunted him when there was nothing to do, nothing else to think about.

The Work. That was what was important. His mind rotted without it, dived back down to useless sentiment and dreams.

The Work kept him useful, strong. His mind was all that mattered; the body was transport and the heart was a distraction that was never worth it.

Still, almost a year after he had seen John last, that didn't stop his heart from beating wildly in horror when John was shot.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: All good things - August 2009.

.


	16. All good things

**All good things**

Chapter Summary: One year after Sherlock and John spilt up certain realisations occur when tragedy strikes.

Author's Note: Thank you so, so much for the responses to this fic - you guys are so lovely and it's been fab to see it all :) Also I had lobster for the first time tonight and it was foul so I am posting to cheer myself up. And because the editing came back very snappy thanks to my lovely betas :)

Also, we wil be back to weekly sunday updates after this.

* * *

**August 2009**

"Oi, three continents, you buying?"

John groaned, ducking his head into his arms on the bar. "Not you too," he muttered, lifting the bottle to his mouth.

"I'm lovin' it," Murray replied with a grin. "You've conquered them all apparently; gay, straight and bi."

John winced and rubbed at his forehead. "I'm going to kill Fabs."

"Never know, you might get some action tonight."

"Not with you shouting that around," John complained. "How did the manoeuvres go?"

"They're all so green," Murray complained, settling into the bar stool next to John. "I think I might strap 'em to a target and let you shoot at them. Cheeky fuckers keep whinging that I've made it 'impossible'."

"To your face?" John asked, unimpressed.

"Nah, they got some sense lad, even if they reckon my ears are shite. So you out tomorrow?"

John nodded.

"You know hospital's short?"

"Just finished over there," John grinned. "Gotta keep my skills up. But they're fine. Got a new kid in called Henry. Kid nearly cacked himself because they told him every new doctor was meant to go out into the field. They even made me show him the scars on my leg."

Murray snorted, "Newbies," he grinned, "What would life be without them to torture?"

John nodded and then spotted Micheals across the bar. "See you when I get back."

"Have a good ride," Murray suggested, winking suggestively.

* * *

"Well," Andy pulled a face as he stared down at Sherlock. "I've seen you in worse states."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, looking up from the mess that had been a body.

"Purpose in life, a good shag. Beer," Andy shrugged, "You pick."

"Oi," Lestrade bellowed from across the street. "You! Off my crime scene."

Andy pulled a face and looked at Sherlock. "Whose crime scene?" he asked down at his mate.

"I wouldn't rile him; he's on the fourth attempt at therapy and was moved to the sofa yesterday. He is not pleasant at the moment," Sherlock warned, looking only vaguely concerned by the idea.

Hissing at the idea, Andy watched the Inspector cross the street. "Exclusive?" he asked, glancing down.

"If you hold the arm for more than ten seconds you can," Sherlock offered.

Yuck.

No story was worth that. Squeamish, Andy backed off a little and then huffed as Lestrade almost picked him up by the elbow and escorted him to the police line.

* * *

It didn't take long before they were fumbling at each other in the bathroom stall. By the time Micheals shoved himself in, John was bent over the toilet, hands awkwardly on the tank, trying not to hiss at the sharp pain from it.

It was good. It cleared his mind.

"Harder," he hissed.

Micheals obliged perfectly.

* * *

Sherlock returned home just gone four in the morning, satisfied that he had both solved the case and irritated Lestrade enough for the next three days.

Bored and with the flat so quiet, he started to pull out drawers, hoping to find an old experiment, book, something to occupy his mind.

Something that was not hidden in the floorboards.

"You have it so easy," he complained to his skull. "You don't have to put up with morons or the fact that for half of a day people sleep away their lives." He glanced at the floorboards again and turned to the wardrobe, leaving everything scattered over the floor, "Or force rules on you that don't mat-"

He froze, catching a glimpse of balled up fabric in the corner.

The coat.

_Closing his eyes Sherlock waited._

"_Arms," John ordered._

_Arms? Why on earth did he want arms? Fingers he could have understood but... Sherlock almost sighed as his arms were pressed backwards. He didn't want bondage tonight-_

_His thought process stopped when a heavy fabric, with a smooth texture was pushed along his arms and then up onto his shoulders._

_A coat…the coat?_

_"I wasn't…I didn't mean to sound as if it was a stupid idea, I just meant…those people don't deserve you," John sounded nervous as he pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's throat. "You can make a real differe__nce you idiot."_

_Sherlock opened his eyes._

_It was the coat, the Belstaff coat that he had seen. _ "You cannot afford-"

_"Yeah…cause I have to pay rent for the next gazillion years while I train to be a doctor and earn a wage," John teased, eyes dancing. _"_And __I cut the label out, you can't return it."_

Hissing at the memory, Sherlock reached for the coat, determined once again to throw it out and rid himself once and for all of the last vestiges of that failed sentiment.

He never could.

* * *

"Makes a good change," Micheals said as they sat on the floor. "I was getting bored of the wall outside"

John shrugged, "Fancied a change."

"Mind if I smoke?"

John stiffened. "You can do what you like outside," he suggested, leaning his head back as he focused on the aches in his body, trying to settle the itching need to be doing something.

"You used to smoke," Micheals muttered. "Saw you and Murray once."

That had been before. "I don't now."

"Do you even know my first name?"

"Why?" John frowned at him, tipping his head to the side to study the Lieutenant. "I thought we both knew what this was."

"We do," Micheals didn't seem that concerned. "Didn't you use to have someone back home?"

"Don't go there," John suggested mildly.

"It's not healthy, John," Micheals said pointedly as he slowly uncurled from his awkward position to stand.

Smiling at the point, John started to stand himself. "Plenty of others, if you don't like it."

Micheals dipped his head as if to kiss him and John pulled his head back, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Really, not healthy," Micheals stepped back. "Still, guess three continents has quite a few lined up for stress relief."

Yeah, that was what it was, John thought, watching him go and stretching to feel the burn left by rough sex.

Stress relief.

* * *

He needed to do something, memories like that…the ones that snuck up and grabbed at him, tearing at his chest were cruel and difficult to dismiss.

He was getting better at it though. Sentiment was a weakness he was slowly overcoming.

The box was tempting, but he'd been clean again for two months this time and he wanted to prove Mycroft wrong.

Something, he needed something…

Snarling, he went out in the end, to badger the night shifters at Scotland Yard.

* * *

"You twisted your ankle?" John asked blankly, staring down at the soldier.

Mellor nodded pathetically.

Stunned, John rubbed at his head. "How did you make it past bootcamp again?"

"Sir, it really hurts," Mellor whined. "I think…I think I might need help from all three continents."

There was a snickering behind him and John sighed.

"Anything else you want to add before I send you to KP duty for the next twenty months?" John asked conversationally, looking back at the Captain who just shook his head, though his lips twitched.

"Worth it, sir," Mellor grinned cheekily.

"I hope it was," John reached down a hand to lift him up. "Because-"

Mellor's face changed from amused to horrified in under a second and he twisted his grip on John pulling him down and away.

Even as he was falling there was an explosion that lit up the space between his eyes as agony crashed through him.

He had no idea where it was coming from, it was so fucking disorientating. There was an inhuman scream from somewhere as he fell to the floor, half on top of Mellor.

Blood, he thought in confusion. Was Mellor bleeding-

This time there was an explosion with an almighty screech of noise and thunder and another scream, more screams, wet, heat, pain.

Jesus it hurt-

When he looked down there was a mess where a leg should have been and then gunfire.

The world went black.

* * *

"Come on," Andy whined. "Please? Let me go in with you."

"No," Sherlock growled, "You just annoy people."

"I annoy people?" Andy asked sounding taken aback. "Look at yourself, you thoughtless knob."

Sherlock whirled at the doors," Are you just going to annoy me until I agree?"

Andy shrugged. "It usually works."

"Fine," Sherlock buzzed through. "Don't talk to me though."

"Where's the fun in that?"

* * *

Blue. Endless blue.

John stared up, unable to breath.

Heavy. Hair.

God he was thirsty.

It hurt. Everything hurt. Or was numb, he wasn't sure which.

There was someone on top of him, their head on his shoulder. He tried to move…

It felt like fire was crawling up his back. Screaming from the pain he gasped up at the sky, trying to blink away tears.

There was nothing coming out, he was so thirsty.

Turning his head was agony. The sand was stained with blood and the sight of it made him gasp and struggle, sending wave upon wave of hurt across his body.

Stretching his neck further, he stared at the bodies opposite, sucking in a relieved breath when he noticed the rise and fall of their chests.

Leg.

Licking his lips, he looked back, his own leg a sudden mass of pain. It hurt, but he couldn't work out where-

The sand beneath his legs was drenched.

Shit.

Trapped he stared up at the sun lit sky.

_Sherlock._

* * *

Sherlock lazed back in the chair, watching as Andy slammed his hand down. "It's public property, they should know-"

"Not at the expense of my investigation."

"Whose investigation"? Sherlock queried smoothly, earning himself a rather delicious glare from Donovan.

"Shut up," Lestrade hissed. "You can't publish-"

"Oh, now the police are telling me what I can and can't publish," Andy glared at Sherlock, "Can you explain to these wankers what free press means?"

"You explain to him what 'police crime scene' means or I swear you aren't getting onto one again," Lestrade snapped at Sherlock.

"Really? I was under the impression that you wanted to solve crimes," Sherlock asked smugly.

"We can solve it without you," Donovan folded her arms, glaring at Lestrade.

"And yet, you seem to constantly be calling for a consult," her teeth gritted when he said the word. "Or is it my presence that you enjoy?"

"Sir, tell him that he's an arrogant-"

Sherlock glanced at Andy, then frowned when he saw his pale face and horrified gaze. Following the look, Sherlock stood as he caught a glimpse of the television.

"Sherlock." Andy's voice was thick with horror.

There on the sleek screen was a news report with subtitles, the reporter standing facing the camera with a familiar background.

"Don't be so dramatic," Sherlock muttered, shaking away the name that threatened. Twice in twenty four hours, he hadn't been that bad in weeks-

"Volume," Andy shouted at Lestrade, his face utterly pale. "Get that fucking volume on, now."

His heart suddenly slowed and the world seemed to pause, ever so slightly.

"You…you're being…" he swallowed.

Andy was being dramatic, he had to be. Because…because it couldn't be…

Sherlock suddenly reached out, holding onto the edge of the desk as if to keep him upright…he was standing, when had he stood?

"Don't talk to us like th-"

"Sally, shut up," Lestrade sounded horrified. "Mayners, volume. Now!"

Instantly sound filled the office as the officers looked at the three of them who stood there, staring in horror at the television.

"What did you-" Lestrade started to ask Andy.

"-gunfire on the unit. Three have been confirmed dead, their names can't yet be released while the military contacts the family. A further four were wounded, two in critical condition."

No.

God please no.

"Do we have any more information about the attack?"

"Not at this moment, although there have been fierce debates here. It would appear that one of the victims was a doctor and while not operating under the red cross he was attempting to treat-"

Doctor.

Afghanistan.

Doctor on the front lines, out on patrol.

Somehow he was sitting again.

Doctor.

His phone was ringing. Unknown number.

Trying to get hold of their next of kin. Was he still John's next of kin? Had he ever been?

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice cut through the haze, "Sherlock?"

No.

Standing, Sherlock almost threw Lestrade to the ground as he stormed to the exit, dimly he could hear Andy in the background as he dialled.

"Anthea saw the news," Mycroft said the moment he answered. "It's not your-

"Get me a flight. Now-"

"If he's been injured they'll have flown him out to safer-"

"Then fly me there."

There was a pause, "You do know there's a chance-"

"No." Sherlock wouldn't even let himself think it. "No."

* * *

Everything hurt. His shoulder, his chest, his back, his leg.

God his leg.

"It didn't work," he said to Sherlock who was inspecting his leg with one of his magnifying glasses. A really big one that looked like the bottom of a gold fish bowl. "It's a bullet, not a shield."

"It's going to have to come off," Sherlock shook his head. "Hear the noise? It's a saw come to chop your leg up."

It should be an axe. That had character at least. A saw seemed so typical.

"That sounds far too boring," John complained. "I expected better."

"You have a fever," an unfamiliar voice said firmly. "Just relax."

No, he couldn't. He needed to find his leg. His and Mellor's. Had it been Henry? He needed Sherlock, Sherlock was good at searching for clues.

And John could tell him what bits of blood to look for. Like the gingerbread house and the witch.

Sherlock didn't like gingerbread. Or sweets. But they needed to turn the plane around because he liked jelly beans. No it wasn't a plane. John couldn't get his mind around it, like a box that kept flipping open the lid every time he tried to crawl over the crease.

Not a plane. Something else that buzzed.

His leg. The saw. They were holding him down to chop it off.

But he'd lost it, hadn't he. Seen the ragged flesh and bone, felt the unbelievable pain.

He had to get up, run away, find Sherlock. Hide him.

Hands held him and his shoulder screamed.

* * *

"He's alive."

Relief nearly made Sherlock throw up as he stood at the airport, waiting to board. "But?" he asked, knowing Mycroft's tone well.

"He's been shot in the shoulder," Mycroft sounded shaken, "And he's contracted a fever from the field surgery."

"How bad?"

"I don't know."

* * *

The sheets were white and clean. They would tell him off for getting mud over them. Not mud. Sand. But some mud.

Muddy sand or sandy mud?

One was worse than the other, he was sure of that. He wasn't exactly sure which one.

White bones showing through twisted flesh and bloody mess. That was worse. But they'd taken it away to be cleaned up. His leg hurt so much that his chest felt strange, tight and sharp. So painful that when he thought about it he wanted to throw up.

"-bring his temperature down."

Yes. They should do that. Drag it down, like when he had to drag Sherlock away from an experiment. He could picture the temperature with red checks and a sullen expression.

Down for what though? Why would you bring the temperature down?

He wanted to move but there were tugs and hands and flashes of white hot pain that made him whimper in confusion.

Sherlock.

* * *

It wasn't meant to be like this.

Sherlock stood, staring down at the figure in the bed feeling utterly and completely numb.

He'd not thought of what it would be like to see John again. He supposed he'd always assumed that John would just remain John, his version…

His version didn't exist anymore.

John looked older, stronger, different, despite the pale face and burning cheeks from the fever.

It was like suddenly being faced with the grown up version of John. A John who shook with the fever and trembled at nightmares Sherlock couldn't possibly understand.

"Are you visiting him?" a nurse asked.

Sherlock didn't say anything; he wasn't sure what he would say if he could.

"Family?"

Sherlock nodded, not even sure why he did it.

"He'll pull through," she said, reassuringly. "He's a lovely man, my sister is out there. She said he's a real sweetheart with her."

Sherlock turned his head. "Is he?" he asked woodenly.

"Yeah, I mean," she shrugged, "I know he had a bit of a reputation. But, he's not a sleeze, you know? Just having fun."

Fun?

Reputation?

"Will he recover?" Sherlock asked, feeling as if he'd just swallowed ash.

She nodded, "I expect so. You must be proud of him, he's getting to be a bit of a legend for the hospital staff. We always get a bit teased for having it so cushy – it's good to have him to point to. Even if they do all call him three continents."

He was going to be sick.

"Are you all right?" the babbling woman asked.

"Can I…" Sherlock cleared his throat, hating how pathetic he sounded. "Can I have a moment?"

"Of course."

He waited until he heard her footsteps fade, then took a step towards the bed, wrapping his hands around the footboard.

He felt as if he should say…something. Something that meant something…but it would have been a fruitless exercise.

He barely knew the man lying in the bed. The John he knew wasn't a womaniser or a soldier; he was a doctor, shy and naïve. An idealist who could make people smile and feel better.

John had been right.

He didn't know this man. The man whose reputation both good and bad was known throughout the army, who was lauded by medical staff and respected by soldiers. Until he looked through John's records, he didn't know that John was an excellent shot, singled out by higher ranks and held up as an example. He had no idea that John had been outstanding throughout his training, that he handled crisis with both a calm demeanour and cool wit. Had John ever told him that he'd been travelling through the ranks far quicker than most, that he'd given up that and surgeon's training to go out and save lives, to take that risk for others.

Sherlock hadn't seen. Hadn't wanted to see.

He'd lost him years ago because of it and now…now there John was. The potential fulfilled and Sherlock had missed all of it, missed the man he had so desperately wanted to see when he and John had first met.

It seemed to be becoming a theme with John. Sentiment blinding him again?

He'd lost him years ago. But not when John thought, not at the moment when John had signed up. He'd lost him in that nightclub, in the hospital when John's heart had stopped.

He'd lost him the moment he'd seen John as something to protect, to hide from the world. There had been a time when Sherlock had reached for John's hand and tumbled them into experience after experience.

John needed excitement and danger but instead Sherlock had kept it from him, hidden him away like a bird in a gilt cage.

Blinded by the debilitating nature of love. Any idiot could have seen that John would never be happy like that.

Sucking in a breath, he stared, wanting to commit this John to memory. To override the last memory of John in a hospital bed; the time when he had looked down and had wanted to protect him, smother him.

With a small nod, he turned away and walked out.

* * *

Author's Note

It occured to me that you guys have no idea that this fic is going to bbe 37 chapters long! I'd put it on A03 because they have an option for that but...yeah. So, 37 chapters!

Next chapter is

"Strength" - John gets some bad news

"Ghosts of the past"


	17. Strength

**Strength**

Chapter Summary: John is given bad news.

* * *

Thank you so much for the feedback :)

Just as a warning, it may be at least ten days before the next update :)

* * *

**October 2009**

Being back with his mother was torturous. It was like he was being punished for something and he wasn't even sure what it was.

Still, he thought, taking a deep breath as he sat in the examination room, it wouldn't be forever. He simply needed to get this bloody leg sorted and the shoulder wound was healing well.

Apart from-

John ignored the niggling worry. He'd deal with it.

"Ah, Watson," Phelps smiled at him. "How's it going?"

"Good," John nodded, "Can't really complain. You?"

Phelps nodded and scooted the seat close to John. "Rotation okay?"

"Yeah," John reached to unhook the sling and demonstrated. "Still a bit stiff but physio will sort that out in no time."

"Excellent," Phelps said, noting it down on the chart.

"Aren't you meant to be battling with that thing?" John asked, nodding at the computer that hummed ominously in the background.

Phelps threw him a look, "Fuck that for a barrel of laughs," he muttered. "Half wish I was back out with you lot because of that bloody thing."

"Still swear like a soldier," John laughed, flinching a little as the metal of the stethoscope was pressed against his skin.

Phelps nodded, "And that's why you're my favourite patient, because you won't complain about it."

"Depends on what you write down," John teased.

Phelps laughed. "And what about the exercises?" he asked, as he added to the chart.

"Yeah, good."

Phelps glanced up. "Good? Jesus lad, you're a qualified doctor, give me a bit more than that."

John shrugged. "Average, to be expected," he said with a nod.

"Yeah?" Phelps asked, sitting back. "Show me."

Shit.

They locked gazes until John looked away. "It's nothing," he sighed, "Just…there's a tremor."

"We agreed, that's due to stress and shock-"

"Left hand," John swallowed. "When I do the exercises for too long."

Phelps reached for the hand in question. "How long is too long?" he asked, examining the muscles.

"Varies," John said, staring at the diagram of a skeleton opposite.

"John."

"Ten minutes," John said hoarsely, then shook himself. "It'll get better though," he said firmly.

"I need to run tests, John," Phelps warned, standing.

"Yeah," John smiled tightly. "Thought you might."

* * *

"So," Mike grinned at him. "You've actually been shot then?"

John choked out a laugh. "Yeah, I'll have the pretty scar to show it after I get this thing off," he said, nodding down at the sling. "But screw that, you're a dad!"

A delighted grin broke out across Mike's face as he nodded. "She's gorgeous, John. Honestly…no words can describe it."

"Ten fingers and toes?"

Mike nodded. "80th percentile in height as well."

John laughed, "Well, I guess at that age you have to take what you can get. How's Kirsty?"

"Amazing," Mike took a sip. "I mean, I've been on lates at work and she's done everything. I feel like I'm missing out," he hesitated, then leaned forward. "You mentioned…you've done training. In the army…what's it like?"

John paused as he raised his tea. "Uh…no offence Mike, but I'm not sure the army is for-"

"No, teaching you tit," Mike rolled his eyes. "Can you see me in the army, with all this I've added on," he asked, pointing to his belly. "I was thinking about going into it; it'd be better hours to spend with Kirsty and Emma."

"Yeah," John smiled. "I mean, it can be frustrating; some of them think they know it or some bloody piss about with their potential but on the whole…I think you'd be good at it. You've always been more patient than me."

"Let's face it, you were using up a lot of your patience with Sherl-" Mike cut off awkwardly. "Sorry," he sighed, dunking a biscuit into his tea.

John shook his head. "Have you seen him?"

"No," Mike swirled the biscuit. "But…I will do. I…the job. It's at St Bart's."

"So?" John asked blankly.

"Remember? I did some work there a few years ago for training and I met this girl, Molly? She was at my wedding?"

"Vaguely," John said with a shrug.

"Andy tried it on with her?"

Trying not to smile, John pressed his lips together, "I don't think that narrows it down, Mike."

"Well, anyway. She lets Sherlock into the morgue there. Apparently he found some documents or something for the hospital and they pretty much turn a blind eye to him being down there."

John tried to smile. "Sounds like he's the same as ever," he said, watching Mike push his cup around the café's table.

"Yeah…" Mike sighed. "Look, I…if I see him do you want me to pass on a message or anything? I mean, if you're going to be here a few more weeks recovering then he might be okay to meet up-"

John snorted. "I doubt it," he said, swallowing back the hurt. "I imagine there's a dartboard with my face on it by now. He doesn't forgive easily."

"He knows you were shot," Mike said frankly.

Startled, John looked up. "What? I told you not to-"

"It was on the news, John," Mike said sadly, "Didn't take a genius to work out who the doctor was operating free from the red-cross."

Tracing the pattern on the cloth, John debated asking, then damned himself for a fool. "And?" he asked, pulling his hand back.

"Andy said he went as pale as a sheet and vanished for half a week," Mike shrugged.

"Could mean anything," John dismissed, sitting back. "It's always a shock when you know a name in the list."

Mike nodded, eyes shaded with worry.

* * *

"Well?" John asked as he followed Phelps into the room, leaning on the cane as little as possible.

He hated the fucking thing.

"Sit down, John," Phelps said quietly.

The tone made his heart flutter. "You look like someone's dying," John tried to joke. "Pretty sure this isn't going to kill me," he added, wriggling his shoulder pointedly.

Phelps let out a long, pained sigh. "John-"

"Jesus, how long am I going to be out for?" John asked, wincing at the look he was receiving.

"John, the tremor in your hand. It's nerve damage."

"Okay," john swallowed. "But…that's not…it's not um-"

"Permanent."

No.

Suddenly it was hard to swallow. "It's a tremor," he argued slowly. "It…it doesn't show up unless I'm holding something or straining it-"

"John-"

"No," John shook himself. "No, I can't…it's a tremor," he repeated, as if the word would lose the threat the more he said it.

Phelps sighed and scrubbed a hand across his eyes before leaning forward. "John, you cannot carry a gun if your hand is likely to spasm when tired. You know how long patrols can last-"

"I can shoot right handed," John argued immediately.

"You know tremors don't work like that, and you and I both know that in the heat of battle you will want to use your strongest hand. You may need to operate a weapon that requires both hands, to dig out using both hands and all your strength. We cannot predict what will happen at a time of crisis and stress-"

"It's a fucking tremor," John stood suddenly then yelped as his weight went onto his bad leg.

"And you have the leg," Phelps said slowly. "We still don't know what's wrong with it and the pain shows no sign of abating-"

"We both know what's fucking wrong with it," John hissed, leaning heavily on the chair.

Phelps showed no surprise at that. "The mind is powerful, John. This isn't a quick fix and there may not be a permanent one. You cannot go out on patrol like you used to."

John sunk back down onto his seat, closing his eyes. "The hospital then. I can go back there-"

Silence.

Terrified, John snapped open his eyes and stared at Phelps.

"They need surgeons," Phelps said slowly.

"Fine, I was almost through my training-"

"John. You have a tremor in your hand."

No.

God, please, no.

For a moment John couldn't find the words, or form the thought. Swallowing heavily, he eventually managed to draw in a breath.

"What…what are you saying to me?" he asked.

"It is…" Phelps winced and sighed, "It is with my most sincere regret that I must inform you that in a number of days you will receive a letter honourably discharging you due to your injuries-"

John couldn't breathe. Horrified he leaned over, trying to catch a breath.

"I'm so sorry, John."

* * *

"You shouldn't be drinking," Harry said, sitting down next to him on the porch steps.

John ignored her and took a deep swig from the cheap as shit whiskey he'd picked up on his way home.

"John? Mum says you haven't said a word since you got back-"

Wordlessly John offered her the bottle. Seconds later she took a swig and coughed. "Christ this is bad," she muttered shifting so she was comfortable next to him as she handed it back.

"I've been honourably discharged," John said, staring at the fence.

Next to him Harry was silent.

"I've lost the love of my life, my career, my training, my future," John toasted the sky. "All before the age of thirty. Isn't that fucking fantastic?"

"Give," Harry said, holding out her hand. John held the bottle out to her, uncaring as he spilt some of it.

"My marriage is on the rocks, my job's dodgy, my mum's a bitch and my wife miscarried two months ago." Harry toasted the sky as John turned to her in surprise. "They always say the first year's the hardest," she muttered, handing it back.

"I didn't-"

"Include mum in your list?" Harry asked in a steely tone. "I don't want to talk about it," she added, leaning forward to hug her knees.

John nodded, trying to accept that. "Good year to be a Watson, eh?"

Harry smiled weakly, eyes bright. "Still, at least we have our ways of coping," she said, standing. "I'll go get something easier to swallow. We can drink that shit when we're pissed."

* * *

In the end they had to sleep out on the porch. John's leg couldn't hold him to move back into the house and Harry was far too drunk to help.

"Will you go and see him?" Harry asked.

John laughed, bitterly. "Yeah. Sure, I can see Sherlock stuck with a cripple for the rest of his life. Especially one who turned him down for the army. He's a real forgiving, sweet soul."

"You want him back?" Harry asked, swigging the dregs.

"I wanted…" John shook his head, knowing the wooden planks were going to murder his back. "I wanted…fuck knows what I wanted." He turned to look at her. "You and Clara will work it out, right?"

Harry looked at the bottle in her hands and shrugged. "She reckons I have bad coping mechanisms," she said frankly, then cracked up laughing. "Think I can explain it's because we're utterly fucked up?"

Wincing, John laughed. "Do you know he proposed to me?"

"Yeah," Harry tossed the bottle into the garden where it landed with a rather satisfying thud. "You said no."

"I can't imagine being married," John said, staring up at the sky. "All you end up doing is fighting and leaving. It's like a death sentence."

"Aw," Harry rolled over to pinch his cheek. "Is 'ickle Johny playing the broken home card to explain his commitment issues? I think he is," she baby talked him before swatting him.

"I'm serious," John muttered. "No-one I know has a good marriage."

"Mike and his wife," Harry offered.

John shook his head, "I love Mike dearly but I would be bored to death within three days by their relationship."

"Well, you didn't specify that," Harry complained. "Mum and Dad then."

John snorted and turned his head to his sister, "You know they divorced, right?"

"Before that," Harry batted away the last few years of their parents' marriage. "They were funny and sweet."

Unconvinced, John looked back up at the sky.

"What do you think marriage to Sherlock would have been like?" Harry asked.

"I don't want to talk about it," John complained. "I let yours go," he added.

Harry was silent and then sniffed. "I wasn't bothered by having it," she shrugged. "She was, so we did the turkey baster. Then, by the time I wanted it, it was gone."

John looked at her sadly and held out his good arm. Eyes wet, Harry ducked down and snuggled up against him. "Your turn," she said, in a smaller voice then he had heard in years.

"I…"

"Boring?" Harry asked, sounding as if she were trying to focus on something else.

"Not for me," John murmured.

"John," she said sadly. "You can't think-"

"Doesn't matter now," John shook his head. "Does it? Tell me Harry, can you see Sherlock dealing with this? The tremor, the leg, the bad back it all causes, the nightmares, the drinking. The fucking PTSD? Can you see him slowing down and looking twice at me now?"

Harry drummed a rhythm on his chest. "He always did have weird taste," she said eventually.

"Not that weird," John said firmly. "And definitely not after I said no."

Harry hummed at that.

"I'm sorry about the baby," John said softly as they lay in silence.

"And I'm sorry about the army," Harry said quietly. "And Mum," she added, trying to sound light-hearted.

John nodded. "I think we can always take that as a given," he said squeezing her.

* * *

The next morning he could barely walk.

That night was the first time he took out his gun and stared at it thoughtfully.

* * *

Next Chapter: "Ghosts of the past" - John and Sherlockare both haunted by past memories.


	18. Ghosts of the past

Ghosts of the Past

Both John and Sherlock struggle with old memories.

* * *

**November 2009**

John hated the halfway house.

It was his own fault, he knew. He could have stayed with his mum, but Harry needed a place to go back to when she was trying to sort things out with Clara and he couldn't quite bring himself to watch her try and win her wife back.

Besides, as miserable as the place was, at least it suited his mood.

"How are you adjusting to civilian life, John?" Ella asked.

John nodded and looked away. "Fine," he said, keeping his voice level and reassuring. It was a tone he could do in his sleep.

She didn't seem convinced. "It can take a while," she offered slowly.

"Mm," he nodded thoughtfully, keeping his mind blank.

"Any plans for Christmas?" she asked.

Christmas.

"_You are becoming something of a present."_

"No," he stared at the wall behind her. "Just the usual."

"And what is the usual for you?"

John dipped his gaze, trying not to think of Christmases spent with Sherlock, or those where Sherlock had been waiting on Skype or calling.

Or the year before where he had practically worked himself to the bone to avoid thinking about it.

"Nothing exciting," he said, looking at the wall behind her.

Nothing was exciting anymore.

* * *

"Is this another attempt at intervening?" Sherlock asked, bored already from the look on Andy's face before he looked back down the microscope.

Bart's had far better equipment than he did; and they seemed to have some issue with him just walking out of the building with one.

"No," Andy didn't sound that convincing. "I…well…see…the thing is-"

John? Probably; it was likely that someone had seen him during his recuperation time. Steeling himself against whatever was about to be said, Sherlock pulled on his most bored expression, hating the fact that the mere mention of the man still affected him the way it did.

"Victor Trevor was released," Andy said slowly.

Ah. Sherlock stared at the bacteria without really seeing it, hating the memories the name brought with it.

* * *

_2004_

_The nurses had given up trying to shoo him from John's bed. As it was, the only thing that could get him to leave was that awful need._

_He despised it._

_Accepting, begrudgingly, defeat, Sherlock rolled out from John, taking care to extract himself without waking his partner up. Just as managed it, John frowned and shifted nervously in his sleep._

"_Shush," Sherlock soothed, bending down to press a kiss to his forehead and utterly missing when John flailed and jolted under him. Startled, Sherlock pulled back and stared down as John wriggled, suddenly trying to escape from-_

_A nightmare. John was having a nightmare about-_

_Fury blasted through him and then protectiveness doused the flames ever so slightly. Victor wasn't in the immediate vicinity, John was._

"_John," he said quietly, stroking his hair. "John. Wake up."_

_The thrashing continued._

"_John," Sherlock said, a little louder. "Wake up. You're dreaming." He gripped a little tighter._

_Whatever it was; his voice, the pressure, the dream just fading, John's eyes suddenly snapped open and he stared up at Sherlock, too hazed with sleep to be called conscious. Panicked eyes darted around as if to find the threat._

"_Can't breathe," John panted desperately. _

"_Yes, you can," Sherlock laid a gentle hand on John's chest to feel the rapid rise and fall. John made an odd, half whine of protest and made a move as if to protect his injured arm._

"_Shush," Sherlock stroked his hair, trying to stay calm. "Go back to sleep. I have you."_

_As John's eyes locked on Sherlock's he felt an odd, confused mix of fondness and fury as John stared up at him blankly, then let his eyes flutter shut, trusting that Sherlock would keep him safe._

_Pressing a kiss to John's hand, Sherlock drew in a deep breath and plotted._

* * *

He didn't have John anymore, so why on earth did he still feel an overwhelming urge to do what he should have done years ago?

Baffled by the temptation, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, trying to work it out.

Why? Why did he still feel like killing Victor? For the person John had once been and the relationship they had once had? John had been so young looking back on it, so vulnerable.

That look, the one that he could always remember John giving him, burned in his brain.

Confused, Sherlock pressed his hands together and thought.

* * *

The days for John had become so monotonous it was unreal. Like drifting through a dream where nothing touched him and nothing mattered.

Part of him wanted it that way. It was far easier to pretend that he wasn't living this life now; that he wasn't so useless if no-one knew and no-one talked about it. Most still thought that he'd just been wounded and was probably about to go out again. He'd been careful to keep it that way, to not see anyone while he stood, to just talk to Mike over text.

The little cheap café that he sat in had a large window and was in a quiet street that few ventured to unless they worked in one of the office blocks a few yards up. The tea was godawful but it felt safe to sit in the almost empty, dingy little room where no-one would recognise him. Not to mention it was a huge improvement over the four walls he spent most of his day staring at.

As if the world had heard his thoughts, a group of lads wandered by. It took John by surprise at first when they entered the café. One look at them and it was clear they were down for the weekend and were rapidly running out of money-

John caught himself and looked away, suddenly hating the Sherlock sounding voice in his head.

God, how he missed him.

The lads seemed to fill up the room with their chat and laughter as they took up a table and dragged a chair or two over to seat them all. They were relaxed as they teased one lad about his exploits in a club last night and a girl he'd been all over.

Aware that he might be staring, John dragged his gaze down and stared down at his tea.

* * *

_2006_

"_What the hell were you thinking?" John asked grinning as he looked around the paint soaked walls._

"_Not a fucking clue," Alf laughed weakly, head in his hands and elbows on the table. "I'll sell it to you. Right now. Tenner."_

"_Get lost," John tilted his head. "A rainbow?" he asked staring at the back wall. "Seriously?"_

_All he received was a pained groan._

"_The beer isn't even working," Andy complained, hopping up to sit on the bar. "Jesus, Alf. You suck at this already."_

_Throwing them both an utterly foul look, Alf dug into his pocket and pulled out a spliff. "You're meant to be helping, not whinging." Alf popped it in his mouth. "And you've yet to say anything," he added to Sherlock, who stood in the centre of the room, eyes scanning everything._

"_You bought the club?" Sherlock asked slowly. "To impress your latest squeeze."_

"_No, my potential-" Alf broke off and lit the spliff. "It's a sound business."_

_They all turned to stare at him._

"_It was good once. You remember," he said, pointing at John and Andy. "You both worked here when it was good before that fucker took it over."_

"_Yeah. And I also remember that it's been dead as a dodo for the past eighteen months," Andy muttered. "I had to start working properly to earn a way."_

"_You poor thing," John muttered and then frowned at Sherlock who suddenly seemed to be inspecting the wall. "You okay?"_

"_Mm." Sherlock ran his fingers over the plaster. "Cataloguing. There was a window here, I remember. The gradients in texture will be useful when looking at-"_

_Alf just let out another long groan. "Great. Well if I struggle for customers I can lend it out to people like him who are fascinated with building materials. I should just bulldoze it and sell the land."_

"_Get lost," John said, wandering over to Sherlock and avoiding the materials on the floor. "I had my first gay dance here. With you," he added to Alf with a wink. "You can't sell it, can he?" he looked at Sherlock for confirmation._

_Sherlock, in typical Sherlock fashion seemed uninterested in the conversation. "See," Sherlock tugged him close and put his hand on the wall. "Gradients," he said earnestly._

_Laughing, John rolled his eyes and then turned his attention to whatever it was Sherlock was talking about._

* * *

Since getting out, Victor had been staying with his uncle, which made it slightly difficult to spy on him.

And yet, that was exactly what Sherlock was doing.

Not that he knew why exactly. The arguments in his head just echoed back and forth in an endlessly annoying repetitive loop.

Why couldn't he make his damned mind up?

And Victor had some sort of aim, something that he was doing. He knew him; knew that he had a project.

Though for Victor, a project had usually involved sex or drugs or some blend of the two.

* * *

_2002_

"_So what was the problem with your little fan?" Victor asked stretched out on the bed as he smoked._

"_Nothing you need to concern yourself with," Sherlock replied, thinking of Four Beats' terrified face. It had been the most fun he'd had in ages. _

"_What is your fascination with him?" Victor asked. "I mean…you aren't shagging him, right?"_

_Shagging John? _

_He couldn't make up his mind whether it would be worth it or not._

"_You want to though?" Victor asked, sitting up and crawling up the bed to him. "Are you trying to get him to beg?" Victor asked, sucking in a deep drag and then holding the cigarette to Sherlock. "It's always so much better when you get them to think you're doing them a favour."_

_Sherlock could hardly agree more. It was why his current continual bed sharing with Victor was such a pleasant experience. "He is my friend," he said, sucking in a drag._

_Victor looked unconvinced. "Has he said no?"_

_Yes._

"_Unimportant," Sherlock replied waspishly._

_Victor seemed to consider it. "He's cash strapped, right? I could put him in touch with a few people…a few favours here and there. Harder to say no when there's so much you're saying no to, if you catch my meaning?"_

_Blackmail and buy John?_

_Sherlock grabbed him by the throat. "Uninteresting," he said, putting the cigarette back in Victor's mouth. "I despise playing with puppets."_

"_Really?" Victor pulled in a deep breath until the cigarette was almost at the butt and then tossed it at the sink. "I love it. He looks like the type that might just blush but bite his lip and try hard to not let anything show."_

_Yes._

_As if catching his interest, Victor pulled at Sherlock's jeans and the zip. "Innocent and corruptible. He's never been with a man. Or in a threesome, right?"_

_John was his. He wasn't sharing._

_And yet…the idea…just the idea of it, nothing more, was pleasing._

"_We could coax him into bed. Between us it would be so fucking easy," Victor grinned triumphantly as he started on Sherlock's shirt. "All soft smiles and gentle encouragement as we took him apart."_

_The image…John…lust blown pupils, hitched gasps…._

_Yes._

"_Get him to relax, to open up," Victor was licking strips of Sherlock's chest as his hands slid down and into his underwear. "He'd be tight. Virgins always are like that. So tight it's almost painful."_

_Yes, Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to picture it as Victor's hand started moving in a delicious rhythm._

"_Two of us," Victor breathed, kneeling up to Sherlock's neck. "We could pin him down, watch the confusion. You like watching, right? I could fuck that tight arse and you could make him swallow your cock-"_

_Sherlock violently shoved him backwards._

"_No?" Victor laughed. "Jesus, you have the back then. I just figured you'd want to see his face-"_

_He would. He wanted to see it all._

_He wanted to have it all._

_Catching the thought, he looked away in confusion, not at all sure of what he was meant to do with that sentiment._

"_I do fancy a threesome though," Victor leaned back. "Maybe a girl though," he said with a wink. "Or just…something different. You sure he's off limits?"_

_Sherlock nodded, not letting himself think about it._

_He wanted it all and yet 'all' was something that he hated._

* * *

Back Door was just as Sherlock remembered it last, before he'd had a certain discussion with Gay Alf.

It was painful to go back and ask.

"Yes?" Alf asked, folding his arms behind the bar. It was an average night from the look of things, busy enough that he'd had to fight to the bar and then to get time with the owner.

"Trevor was in here a few days ago."

Alf blinked in confusion. "Who?"

"Victor Trevor."

Anger crossed Alf's face, "He's out?"

"Indeed. I assume that means your observational skills haven't improved?"

"They were good enough to pick up your hints," Alf hissed at him. "You know John's still around?"

No. He'd thought-

No.

"And?" he asked blandly. "I have no interest in him."

"Right. Why do you want Trevor then?"

"He ignored an explicit instruction," Sherlock said simply. "I do dislike someone who cannot listen properly."

Alf smiled without humour. "Then you should have no problem finding the door."

"Have you fucked him yet?"

The words came out without his bidding and it was hard to tell out of the two of them, who was more surprised.

* * *

_2006_

_The opening night of Back Door under new ownership had been interesting enough. Fascinating to see the cliental and to work out why and who would come. He'd had to leave to compare it to the other clubs in the area, to ensure his conclusions were correct._

_When he'd returned it was to Alf and John laughing at the table. John was on a beer (his only one to Sherlock's pride) while Alf was drinking a cocktail and watching John-_

_The shock was enough to bring Sherlock to a halt._

_Oh._

_Oh!_

_Mine._

_Sherlock walked over, weaving with ease through the crowds, before getting close enough to hear the conversation._

"_-never been so fucking exhausted in my life," John was laughing. "It was pathetic, seriously."_

"_You must be fit now though," Alf asked, with the slightest purr in his voice._

_No._

_Sherlock bent and almost curled around John, reaching out for his beer bottle and stealing a sip of the foul stuff, before pressing a kiss to his ear._

"_Well…it does help when someone decides to turn into a flaming octopus," John muttered, turning his head to grin at Sherlock. "You back from your spying mission."_

"_Yeah, find anything out?" Alf asked, sipping through the cocktail umbrella._

"_That some people want what they can't have," Sherlock replied._

"_Jesus, is it one of those cryptic days?" John moaned, taking the beer back and having a swig._

_Alf's eyes narrowed fractionally and he looked away. "Some people don't bother trying to get what is obviously not going to be theirs."_

_John blinked at them both and stared at his bottle. "Am I hammered?" he asked sounding confused._

"_You will be," Sherlock said, stroking his hand down the firm stomach._

_Alf threw him a hurt look and stood up. "Enjoy the night," he said, eyes dancing away from them. Somewhere…some tiny part of Sherlock felt a stirring of slight…_

_Regret._

"_Apparently we will," John said, oblivious and with a wink._

* * *

The odd, hurt expression crossed Alf's face again and Sherlock swallowed back his triumph, even as Alf tried to casually shrug. "So what if I have?"

"You haven't," Sherlock stepped forward. "How frustrating for you. Did he say no?"

Alf let out an annoyed laugh, "Why? Hoping it's not just you he turned down?" he snarled.

Icy cold, Sherlock took another step forward. "You won't even ask," he decided. "You know he won't ever look at you like that, even though you-"

"Would have liked the chance," Alf tilted his chin. "We get on, he's fit and he makes me laugh. It wasn't some epic pining Sherlock or a great romance. You got there first and I would never have been able to compete with what you two had. If I'd met him first or if he was single and ready, but he's never been. And unlike you, I don't ignore everything and just do as I damn well please-"

Sherlock hit him. Hard and fast and stared as Alf stumbled back, then looked at him in shock.

"He's not over you," Alf laughed, touching the back of his hand to his mouth. "You fucker. Christ knows why I'm telling you. I thought we were friends until you started pulling that shit. Every time I saw you, you would paw at him to prove a point. Did you really think I would have done that to either of you?"

"The question is pointless now," Sherlock stepped back, trying to regain control. "You haven't seen Victor then?"

"No," Alf stepped back. "And you're fucking barred, you tosser."

* * *

John wasn't exactly sure why he insisted on staying out in the dark of London. Tempting fate perhaps? He'd been in enough troubling situations when he was healthy and at full strength without adding in his leg and shoulder.

But god, it was the only thing that almost managed to get his heart racing these days.

The building loomed in the distance, lit up by streetlights and looking utterly depressing as he neared. Struggling, he stopped and just stared up at the endless expanse of grey blocks.

What the hell had happened to his life?

"Hello John."

Starting at a voice he hadn't heard for ages, John turned.

* * *

Next week: Nothing happens to me


	19. Nothing happens to me

Nothing Interesting Happens to me

Chapter Summary: John has to face up to some truths when he finally bumps into a few people

Warning: Suicidal ideation

* * *

**November 2009**

Victor Trevor.

John stared at him a little blankly, not entirely sure how he was meant to feel about seeing the man again. The last memory he had of Victor was of that stinking red carpet and crazed eyes looming above. Mycroft had taken care of everything to ensure John hadn't had to bear being in the same room as the man again.

"You're out," he said stupidly.

Cold blue eyes darted to the cane and then to his face. "Someone beat me to it then."

Startled, John looked down at the cane, still not used to people assuming that was where his injury lay. The second he took his eyes away from Victor there was a rustle and then a click.

The familiar click of a gun.

It was a strange sensation to know what he was going to see before he looked up. Often, John had wondered if that was how Sherlock felt when he made a deduction and was proved right. There was no curiosity, no fear, simply a certainty that he felt to his bones.

There was a gun pointed at him.

Slowly, John lifted his gaze once more.

"Ah," he said, shifting painfully. "I was wondering why you bothered to track me down."

"It was your fault," Victor hissed. "Yours. You came after me and I hadn't even done anything. It was Sherlock that had gone and got high, I had nothing to do with it. If you hadn't come to the club-"

"True," John nodded. "But then I suppose you could have just thrown me out on my backside or roughed me up. You were a bit…over the top?"

Victor's grip tightened on the gun. "You see what I have pointed at you?" he asked with some disbelief.

The bitter noise that erupted from John's throat startled them both. "Yeah, don't worry. I'm familiar with the sight. It loses impact after a while."

"Piss off many people, do you?" Victor asked, his hand unsteady.

"Something like that," John said calmly.

Victor moved suddenly, darting forward until the gun was pressed into the skin at John's forehead. The cold of the metal was startling; he'd hardly ever had to get that close to know he could fire a gun with success.

A hand wrapped around the back of his neck so that he couldn't pull away and the smell of beer on Victor's breath was enough to make John wince a little.

"Say sorry."

Victor wasn't trained, at this range he could get over excited, squeeze, and it would be the end of John without Victor even intending it. A wrong answer, a snap of temper and it would all be over.

But Jesus, it was the most alive he'd felt in months.

"No."

"I'll do it," Victor threatened. "I'll pull the trigger."

With his free hand John reached out and grabbed the end of the gun holding it steady. "Go on then," he dared.

Shock flared in Victor's eyes and he looked suddenly unsure.

"You…you don't care?" Victor muttered, almost as if to himself.

John laughed. "I've lost everything," he said quietly. "Sherlock, my job, my life, my friends. Everything. You think having a gun to my head is anything new? I'm just not used to company while it happens."

Slowly the gun lowered and John dropped his hand to his side as the metal slid down his face and rested on his lips. A push and it was in his mouth.

John closed his eyes and waited as the pressure on his neck eased and then vanished.

"You're pathetic," Victor whispered after a moment.

John opened his eyes as the metal slid away, feeling strangely hollow. Dully, he watched Victor step back and start to put the gun away.

"Safety," he said quietly.

Victor paused and threw him a confused glance.

"You need to put the safety on. Otherwise you might accidently," John made a vague shooting motion with his free hand, "You know."

Victor looked down and then clicked the safety on.

He was pretty sure he was meant to feel relief or some sort of comfort in seeing the move, but all John felt was a gnawing disappointment, like when a film failed to deliver a good and satisfying ending.

"You think you'll do it?"

"Probably not," John shrugged.

Victor's mouth twisted into a triumphant smile. "Coward."

Probably.

* * *

It was simple enough to track Victor's movement through London using the CCTV. Mycroft had raised a token protest, but folded far too quickly in Sherlock's opinion.

That usually meant that he was storing up his refusal for a later request, but Sherlock could deal with that when it came.

He listed a few places that Victor visited, making a note to go to them at some point.

The next camera footage that would pick Victor up was missing.

Annoyed, Sherlock jumped across the screens in the area, looking to see when Victor reappeared. Three cameras seemed to have been having technical issues that day and it took twenty minutes for Victor to appear again, looking lighter and pleased with himself.

That had been three days ago.

Mycroft.

* * *

_Are you going to do it?_

_Probably not._

The conversation went round and round in John's head.

_Probably not._

But if he wasn't going to do it, and John could admit now that it was unlikely, what was he going to do?

He needed to get out of the bedsit. Get out, get a job, get a life and stop waiting for the world to finally end.

He had to venture back into the world again.

Great.

* * *

"Why is the footage missing?" Sherlock demanded.

"Is it?" Mycroft didn't even bother to make the question sound convincing.

"Mycroft!"

"These things happen. Circuit failures, loose wires. One can never predict it."

"You predict everything, it's what makes you so dull," Sherlock retorted.

"Well, I certainly would never have predicted that you'd still be bothered about Mr Trevor considering John refused your proposal."

The words still stung, even after all this time.

"He ignored my instructions and hurt what was mine." Sherlock sniffed. "No more, no less."

"Was," Mycroft agreed. "And no longer is. And, as he will no longer be in the country, I fail to see why you are making such a fuss about the issue."

What? "He's emigrating?"

"To Australia," Mycroft said as he collected some papers together. "Apparently he enjoys the company of criminals."

* * *

Back Door was quiet in the day time. If Alf was actually in at four in the afternoon it would be a miracle.

Or the opposite. John wasn't entirely sure he was really ready for it, but out of all the people he knew, Alf was the least friendly with Sherlock. The pair seemed to have had a spat some years ago and regarded each other with a wary glare ever since.

John had no idea why it was so important that Sherlock never know. It was stupid really, trying to keep a secret from Sherlock Holmes.

The loading bay gates were open slightly and John slipped through, clumsy now with the cane as he wandered to the service entrance and typed in the code.

Stupid git still hadn't changed it.

John walked down the corridor slowly, hating how heavy his gait was now as he navigated the odd step here and there before he found Alf's office and the man himself, bent over paper work as if facing the devil.

Inexplicably nervous, John knocked on the door.

Alf jumped and glanced up, then did a double take.

"John?" he asked, sounding slightly disbelieving. "What…what happened?" he stood, staring at the cane.

"Got shot," John sighed, standing straight.

"In the shoulder, Andy said. He didn't say anything about…" Alf gestured to John's cane. "You should be back out by now, surely? Or did you-"

"Discharged," the word spilled from his lips as if he'd been holding it back. "I was honourably discharged for injury."

"Oh," Alf couldn't seem to stop staring at him. "Jesus…mate you look awful."

Huffing out a laugh, John nodded. "Yeah, I bet."

"You should…have a seat," Alf started to walk around the desk. "I'll pull it over."

John gritted his teeth, hating it.

* * *

"You left?"

"Yeah," John looked away. "He seemed to think I was made of spun sugar or something. It was either that or…" he trailed off, suddenly very aware that he was speaking to his therapist.

"They will need time to adjust to the idea and to understand what you can and cannot do."

God, the list of the latter was becoming never ending. "Yeah," John said without any interest.

* * *

When he walked out at the end of the session, Sherlock was standing at the reception rifling through folders.

It was like going back in time, only Sherlock wasn't wearing his coat and looked a little older, perhaps a little thinner. There was a ruthless efficiency to his movements, like one who had done a task many times before and was no longer that interested or bothered by it.

He was still stunning. Unignorable. Wonderfully alive and vivid in the dull grey world John was now trapped in.

He looked good. Settled, no longer desperate and wildly grabbing on to something that wasn't-

John pulled away from that thought.

He could do this.

"I doubt it's what you're after, but my folder is still in with the therapist." Somehow, some way, his voice didn't wobble.

Sherlock froze as if someone had pressed his pause button.

The silence stretched on and on, even though Sherlock slowly started to move again, putting folders back into the box.

"But I'm on my way out if that's not…I'll be ten minutes," John added, stupidly praying that Sherlock wouldn't turn around.

"Victor Trevor was released three weeks ago," Sherlock's voice was flat. "He's following you."

"Oh," John considered that carefully. Either Sherlock was half-heartedly looking into it or he was testing John for some weird reason.

"He's angry," Sherlock had finished with the folders.

"Yeah," John stared at nothing, remembering the feeling of the cold gun.

"You've seen him," Sherlock muttered to himself. "Why would he let you see him? You're trained-"

"Injured," John corrected. It was all he was now. Injured. Discharged for injury. Wounded soldier.

"You should be healed. This must be your last session." Sherlock drummed his hands on the box.

_I've been discharged. I'm crippled, useless. I have a cane. Alf hovers around me as if I might accidently die on him. _

"Yeah," John had no idea what he was saying yes to, but the other words, the ones he couldn't bear, just weren't jumping to his throat. "Tha…thanks for letting me know," he said, completely losing track of their conversation.

"You already knew," Sherlock turned angrily. "Don't-"

Unable to watch the look and see whatever emotion would be in Sherlock's expression, John stared past him and at the door, clenching his jaw.

"You…" Sherlock sounded utterly confused. "It…it's psychosomatic," he abruptly announced.

"Probably," John agreed mildly.

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh. "Discharged? No wonder you're suffering therapy if you want to get your precious career back."

Nothing would get that back. "Mm," John nodded, too tired to really argue with him. What did it matter?

The reaction seemed to confuse Sherlock further. "No," he muttered to himself. "You'd look more uncomfortable about the idea…why…"

With a long sigh, John almost dared to look at him. "I was shot in the shoulder. I have a tremor that they can't ignore and they can't risk out in the field; either in combat or medical situations. The leg is just…gravy."

"You don't sound…bothered," Sherlock said slowly.

"It is as it is," John's gaze made it to Sherlock's shoes.

"I have things to do," Sherlock announced suddenly.

"Yeah," there was an odd twisting in his chest. God knew what he'd expected from their eventual encounter. Something? Anything? Not this odd polite chat that could be between a stranger and…well…Sherlock. "Well, you go first, it takes me a bit longer."

Sherlock hesitated for all of seven seconds before he turned on his heel and left without so much as a backwards glance.

* * *

"Leaving so soon?" Sherlock asked, stepping out of the corner in the boarding lounge.

Victor jumped, clearly startled. "I was expecting you days ago," he muttered. "You always did do the unexpected."

Smirking, Sherlock walked forward. "And you were always so obvious."

Victor looked away. "I'm leaving," he said tightly. "It's finished now-"

"Why?" Sherlock crowded him. "Why is it finished now? What happened to make it finished?"

"Do you not know?" Victor looked at him, suddenly smug. "I thought he was exaggerating when he said that he'd lost you."

John.

Pale, older, looking half dead with disinterest in the world-

Sherlock blocked the image before his chest tied up into knots again. "You talked," he said, oddly unsurprised.

The idiot in front of him mistook his dull tone for apathy. "Did more than that," Victor said, looking pleased. "Is it true he refused to marry you?"

Did everyone on the bloody world know?

"I put a gun to his head."

_Gun._

_To his head_.

Sherlock swallowed.

_A gun._

_To John's head_.

Whatever it was that showed on his face made Victor pale, realising his error. "I…I didn't though," he said quickly. "I walked away. Not much point really, was there?"

"Was there not?" Sherlock said silkily, stepping even closer to Victor and making him swallow.

"Not worth it," Victor said with an easy disgust.

Not worth it? Victor had been staying in England for the simple reason of wanting to confront John. Why suddenly, was it 'not worth it'?

Behind them, a couple were watching their interaction warily. Jerking Victor close, he yanked him into a tight hug, his mouth by his ear.

"You walked away and I am letting you do the same," he sneered. "You come back - if I hear you have set foot in this country again, I will kill you. And you suggest to your uncle that he start moving on, because nothing will give me greater pleasure than destroying your trust fund." He let out a calm breath, letting Victor feel the smile he was wearing. "Clear?" he asked, in a pleasant, almost sweet tone.

"Clear," Victor confirmed in a shaken voice.

Smirking, Sherlock pressed a kiss to his check. "Good."

* * *

Suicide?

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the keyboard, staring at the screen.

Was that what Victor had meant? Not worth it?

Suicide and John.

It didn't sound right. John wouldn't…he couldn't…

* * *

He hadn't been able to sleep. Instead he'd stayed up all night thinking.

Suicide.

The only good thing was that he had stumbled upon two suicides, one last week that seemed strange and might be interesting, but it hadn't helped at all with his situation with John. There had been no decisive indicators that he could research and use to determine John's state of mind. Listless? Yes, he had been, but then he was in therapy, he'd lost his career-

Good.

Not good.

And so it went, battling over and over in his head as to how he should feel, his own emotions crowding his observations and distracting him from a useful conclusion.

Suicidal.

_"I walked away. Not much point really, was there?"_

What if he did?

What if he had?

Sherlock glanced at his phone.

The world without John Watson?

Snarling in frustration at himself and his own…sentimentality, he stood and slammed out of his flat.

* * *

"_Probably not."_

John studied the gun, ignoring the odd noise coming from the door.

"_Probably not."_

He had to end this. Slowly, he turned it over again and again in his hands.

"Don't."

Stunned, John turned to the door and blinked, sure that he was dreaming.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, eyes completely fixed on the gun. Following his gaze down, John looked at the gun again.

Then opened the chamber and emptied it.

"I wasn't going to," he said, calmly putting it away. "I was-"

"You were thinking about it."

John closed the drawer. "Not now," he said, risking a glance at Sherlock who still avoided looking at him properly. "I'm not suicidal," he said sitting back. "You don't have to be here."

"You were," Sherlock said, a key in his hands that made John want to roll his eyes. Thief.

"I was thinking about…maybe doing it," John shrugged trying to dismiss it. "But…I probably won't," he said with a shrug. "So…it's not you," he said, struck with inspiration. "I…you don't have to be here because of…" guilt was a shit word. "You aren't responsible for me," he floundered a little.

Slowly, Sherlock's eyes tore away from the drawer and jumped to the walls, the bed, the room in general. And, knowing him as John did, he followed Sherlock's gaze, wondering what it was the man saw.

"Andy doesn't know," Sherlock said, staring at the bed. "Nor does Mike. They'd have passed it on."

"No," John shook his head. "It's not exactly…I don't really want to talk about it. With anyone so…not really coffee conversation," he said, trying to dismiss it.

"You have told someone…" Sherlock's eyes made their way to the chest of drawers by John's bed.

"Alf," John nodded. "He took it…" he shrugged. "Wasn't the best conversation I've ever had."

"Recently," Sherlock said. "Yesterday or the day before."

How the hell had he known that? John turned to look at the chest of drawers as if they might have been gossiping to Sherlock. "Uh…yeah," he turned back awkwardly. "Yeah."

Sherlock nodded.

Then an uncomfortable, painful silence bloomed.

"You can go, it's fine-"

"Give me the gun."

What?

John shook his head and put an elbow on the table and his head in that hand. "No," he said, scraping the hand over his face.

"Give me the gun," Sherlock ordered, his voice firmer.

"I'm not giving you a gun," John muttered. "Do I look thick?"

"Excruciatingly," Sherlock sneered, "Given that you've been sitting with a gun to your head night after night-"

John let out a frustrated laugh.

"-given that you told Victor to pull the trigger."

John sobered and looked away.

"You told him to pull the trigger," Sherlock breathed and John winced. How often had Sherlock pulled that trick of pretending to know more than he did?

And John realised he had no idea what to say.

"Give me the gun," Sherlock repeated.

John hesitated, then shook his head. "No," he said hoarsely.

For a moment he was afraid Sherlock would just simply take it, and God knew he wasn't in the right state to fight him off. But Sherlock simply sighed, then stalked through the room to sit on John's bed.

"You cannot be serious," John breathed, shifting awkwardly to watch him. "Why the hell do you want to stay here-"

"I don't want to stay here," Sherlock sneered. "But you want me here even less than I want to be here. Give me the gun."

That was hardly true.

"You're wrong," John said quietly, weighing up how fair it would be to say what he wanted to say. In the end the words spilled out without his express permission. "I missed you."

Sherlock didn't react to it.

Fair enough.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked Sherlock.

"Not particularly," Sherlock said tightly.

John made it twenty minutes of stony silence before he relented. Feeling guilty, he pulled the drawer open and tossed the gun to Sherlock.

But, instead of stalking out with it, Sherlock stared at it, as if he'd never seen a gun before in his life.

"Sherlock-"

"How?" Sherlock asked suddenly, switching the gun to his left hand. "How would you have done it?"

Weighing up the intelligence of answering that question, John stroked a soothing hand over the ammunition he'd pulled from the gun, reminding himself of where it was. "Temple," he said eventually.

Sherlock raised the gun to his head, trying out the position, and John felt his heart jump and stutter at the sight.

"Sherlock-" he breathed. "Put it down."

"Why?" Sherlock met his eyes for the first time in a year. "There's nothing in it."

"Because-" John trailed off.

Sherlock with a gun in his hands, pointed at himself like that was horrifically wrong. It was-

Oh.

"I get it," John said as Sherlock lowered it. "You made your point."

Sherlock nodded and laid the gun on the bed, standing. "You're on an army pension?" he asked.

John nodded.

Pension.

Before the age of thirty.

"You won't be able to stay in London on that," Sherlock said without inflection.

"No," John agreed.

"Probably for the best," Sherlock decided, walking to the door.

Then he seemed to hesitate.

"You should tell Andy and Mike," he said to the frame. "They'll respond better than Alf. Neither one of them has been interested in fucking you for the past four years."

And, with that sweet parting shot, he walked out.

* * *

I think a lot of you knew who that was - but hey at least I was nice enough to give you a meeting finally ;)

Next Chapter: What have you got to lose?


	20. What have you got to lose?

What have you got to lose?

Chapter Summary: As Christmas looms, those around Sherlock and John offer their advice for the two.

* * *

Apologies both for the delay in getting this chapter out and for not replying to reviews from last chapter. I had a busy week and am behind now and I figured you would all prefer this to me replying, but please know that they are all appreciated and thank you so much to those who did reviewt :)

* * *

**December 2009**

**Mike**

Mike felt his heart sink a little at the sight of John making his way over, leaning heavily on his cane and looking so much older than he should.

"Christ," Andy whispered, taking a sip of his coffee. "No pity, remember. That's what Sherlock said."

Mike nodded and busied himself with adding more sugar so that John could slip into a seat without them staring at him.

"You sure you shouldn't be using splendor or canderal?" Andy said picking up one of the sugar packets pointedly. "Isn't that what I heard your missus banging on about the other day?"

Bloody woman, Mike thought fondly. "She's not here, motormouth."

"John," Andy looked up as John took the seat, the pair of them having successfully not stared at him as he limped over. "You're a doctor. Tell dumbo here that he should listen to medical advice, especially as he's a doctor."

A very pale faced John glanced between them. "Nah," he said, sounding oddly hoarse. "We make the worst patients. We always think we know better."

There was a sadness to his tone that Mike struggled not to react to. "Exactly," he said, trying to put on a brave face. "So shove it," he suggested to Andy, pouring his sugar in.

"Who else is here?" John asked, nodding at the spare seat and the steaming coffee left on the table.

"Paul," Andy said. Mike hissed in frustration as he noticed Andy pouring another sugar into his coffee.

"You tosser!"

"You wanted it sweet," Andy defended, handing him a spoon. "Enjoy," he added with a grin.

There was a flash of disappointment on John's face, but he covered it pretty well.

"What do you fancy?" Mike asked suddenly. "I'll buy," he offered. "The other two have taken the piss anyway, may as well do the same for you."

It was a lie.

"Just plain coffee," John said, looking uncomfortable. "Thanks."

Andy glanced at the blackboard. "You realise that's really fucking hard to find now?" he asked with a grin. "We've gone fancy. No chain coffee places for us," he added, stroking the napkins with their Criterion logos.

John nodded with a weak smile.

* * *

It took an age to get John to relax a little and they talked about everything; Paul's fiancé, Kenny who was currently enjoying his millions (how that had happened, Mike still didn't know). Andy's editor and his failed attempts to pull a girl who seemed interested in someone else.

They managed to not mention that the 'someone else' was Sherlock.

"So," John said, two hours later. "What did he tell you?"

"Everything," Andy said after a pause.

John sighed. "I'm buying a round of coffee," he said, sounding a little stubborn.

"Fuck that, I'll be pissing coffee in a bit," Andy dismissed. Mike grinned, not at all sure how Andy managed to help a situation by being so bloody rude.

"But-"

"You'd do it for us," Paul said firmly.

John closed his eyes and sighed. "I've been shit, haven't I?" he said, tracing the condensation ring on the table.

"It happens, it's life," Mike shrugged. "So you staying in London this time? We could be four middle aged twats drinking coffee and putting the world to right."

"Get lost," Andy muttered. "I'll be flirting with the waitresses, not talking to you sad fuckers."

"God he will," Paul winced. "And we'll be apologising for him for the rest of time."

John smiled tightly. "Army pension," he said quietly. "London's too expensive."

"Uh…" Andy leaned forward. "You could get one of those job things and earn more money," he said with a grin. "You're a doctor you tit!"

John's lips pressed together and he looked away.

"GP work," Mike said softly. "Sitting down, pretty run of the mill diagnostics."

It hadn't been what John had wanted, even when the army had been briefly off the table. He'd wanted A&E, the rush of it.

So Mike didn't push it. He just mentioned he knew a few people that might be interested in a temp if he wanted to try it and left it at that.

* * *

"Scary," Paul said as he and Mike walked in the other direction and Andy helped John back under the guise of walking to interview someone. "Seeing him like that."

"Yeah," Mike said, digging his hands in his pockets. "Bloody scary. Makes you realise how fragile life can be."

Paul nodded. "No way he and Sherlock are getting back together. John's like a shadow now. There's nothing there to get them back together."

Mike nodded even as the image of Sherlock demanding Andy go to John popped into his head.

Sherlock would, Mike thought. If John made the effort, Sherlock would go back to him.

Problem was, John wouldn't try and Sherlock wouldn't risk that step without John trying.

There was no way it was happening.

* * *

**Mycroft**

Juggling a family celebratory meal for his engagement and Sherlock being his normal acerbic self was never going to be easy. They'd all been rather careful to avoid discussing it too much in front of Sherlock.

It had been something of a shock to them all when Sherlock had actually turned up to the meal, even if he looked utterly distracted.

And wasn't eating.

"You are aware that to engage in a meal one would usually expect you to eat said meal?" Mycroft asked Sherlock as the fish course was taken away without a single bite.

Or maybe Sherlock had seen the menu prices and was just attempting to be his usual irritating self.

To his surprise (and concern) Sherlock blinked down at the plate that was being taken from him as if it was a shock to have it there. "Oh," he said, then seemed to shake himself. "The choices are foul," he half-heartedly said. "I sincerely hope you show better taste at the wedding."

Mycroft glanced over at Anthea and their mother, engaged in a deep conversation with her parents. Her siblings and their partners seemed to be entertaining themselves. "John," he said quietly.

Sherlock stiffened. "You knew," he said, turning his head slightly. "You knew what he was doing. What had happened."

Knew? "About his discussion with Mr Trevor?"

"About his discharge and subsequent suicidal tendencies."

What?

"Well that's something then," Sherlock muttered. "At least I'm not the only one that missed the signs."

There hadn't been a camera situated where Victor had cornered John, just the odd edge that had shown one or the other and indicated they were having a discussion. The whole view had been frustratingly useless, but John and Victor had both walked away.

Or rather John had limped away.

"You haven't been watching him then-"

"Why would I?" Mycroft snapped. "To watch him and know what he was doing would be to let you know what he was doing. He is nothing to you anymore-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached for the wine. "Careful, Mycroft. Don't behave badly in front of the in-laws."

Mycroft snatched up his wine and downed it.

Now was not the time.

* * *

"You aren't going back to him," Mycroft said following Sherlock as he left the restaurant.

Sherlock stopped and turned his head slightly. "Of course not," he said scathingly.

"Are you certain?" Mycroft demanded. "You wanted to kill someone who hurt him years ago. Are you sure you don't want to go to him, to look after him? You could you know. Even he wouldn't say no this time-"

Sherlock turned fully.

"I assume you're desperate for anything that he will give you. Enough to be second best?"

In the street light, it was a relief to see the hint of an amused smirk on Sherlock's face. "Finished?" he asked, folding his arms.

"You are not as unmoved as you're making out," Mycroft said, watching his brother carefully.

"Do you think I am stupid?" Sherlock sneered, stepping forward. "That I want to give anyone that power over me again? It was pathetic, what happened. I will not do that again."

Back-tracking a little, Mycroft stepped back. "Not with him," he suggested.

"Nor anyone," Sherlock lifted his chin. "It clouds judgement. I cannot afford that with my work."

"So you've talked to him?"

Sherlock's gaze skittered a little. "I needed to confirm the information I had received."

"Did you?" Mycroft asked, feeling an odd sinking sensation in his stomach.

"Yes," Sherlock's jaw clenched. "He had a gun in his hands."

Oh.

Anger welled up at John Watson for putting his brother through this, again.

"I dealt with it," Sherlock dismissed. "He won't be staying in London for long. It's done with."

And, with that, he stalked off.

Mycroft watched him go quietly: staring after Sherlock's shadow long after it had faded away.

John had better be leaving, he thought. Or else this was going to go badly.

For all of them.

* * *

**Harry**

Collapsing on the table, Harry sighed up at John.

"This is exhausting," she complained at him. "All I want is a bloody drink," she muttered, putting her head back down. "How long has it been?"

"Three weeks," John said, sounding slightly amused.

"I meant since I texted?" Harry twisted her head to him. "I'm not that bad."

"No," John mouthed in fake agreement. "And it's been seven minutes."

"Urgh," Harry complained sitting up. "Well, that's it then. Never mind-"

"Do you want her back?" John asked, oddly frank.

"Of course," Harry said. "But, what more can I do?"

"Spend longer than a month trying to win her back," John suggested, stretching out a little as he looked through the classifieds.

"You're one to talk," Harry muttered.

"I'm not the one whining about it," John said, still sounding far too calm. It was annoying how much control he seemed to have over himself now. The things that would have hurt or wound him up years ago now just slid off him like water from a duck's back.

"But you do want him back?"

The pen paused and John raised his eyes to her. "We were talking about you," he said. "Or, you were talking about you," he muttered. "I was trying to find a job."

"Would you?" she asked. "If he came here right now and asked for you to fuck him into the mattress. Would you?"

"No," John said, not looking at her.

"What if he came here and asked you to marry him again?"

John shut the paper and folded his arms. "Why are you spoiling for a fight?" he asked tightly.

"I…I'm curious," Harry argued. "Come on, you saw him for the first time in a year. You talked. You must have thought about it."

"No," John said twisting the pen. "I've thought…I wondered about being friends. Maybe, but," he scratched his head. "That's not going to happen, is it?"

"Why not?" Harry asked, watching him. "You both screwed up, John. You act as if you were the only one to do something wrong-"

"No, I didn't end it when he did do something wrong. I can't blame him because we limped on after that." John shrugged. "It hardly matters now, does it?"

"So you won't try to win him back? Even as a friend?"

"He doesn't want it," John said, sounding certain. "I've hurt him enough without adding to it."

Harry doubted it. Watson's always started with the best of intentions but it rarely ever finished that way.

* * *

**Violet**

"Must you?"

Smiling at the fridge, Violet ignored her youngest son as she continued to unpack the shopping. "I bought some fruit," she said, "try to eat properly, dear. It would be so embarrassing if you keeled over from something as silly as scurvy."

She winced as she said it. If there was any part of the six year old boy in Sherlock, he had probably just perked up in interest at the idea.

"Did Mycroft tell you then?"

Tell her? Puzzled, she turned to him. "Tell me what, dear?"

Those pale eyes narrowed at her suspiciously. "About…John?"

John.

Mycroft wasn't too old to be scolded; he could at least have given her a warning. "John?" she asked tentatively. Sherlock had avoided the topic almost violently since they had split up.

Last she had known, John had gone off to Afghanistan and hadn't looked back.

"Oh," Sherlock looked away and settled himself awkwardly against the counter. "You…you don't know…" he almost wriggled in discomfort. "He's back."

"On leave?" she asked, feeling for him. It must be so hard to see John again-

"No. He was…" Sherlock sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "He was shot."

Shot?

"Is he-"

"Alive. Injured. Discharged from the army," Sherlock kicked at the floor. "He…I saw him."

Part of her heart went out to the wide eyed boy that had turned up at a dinner he hadn't been prepared for, the boy John had been. But a larger part worried about Sherlock.

Oh her poor boy, to have to see that. And he was confused; she could see it lurking on his face. With anyone else she would have stepped forward, offered comfort, but Sherlock would curl up and bristle at the idea.

So she waited, calmly.

"Mycroft thinks I should ignore him. Walk away."

"And you?" Violet asked, "What do you think?"

"He's right. Sentiment…" Sherlock shook his head. "It's foolish and it won't help anyone."

She'd heard many versions of that speech over the past year. With a sigh, she turned back to the fridge, busying herself with work as she thought.

"It's not a tap, Sherlock. You either care or you don't. Whether or not you view it as a weakness."

"I don't want to care," came the petulant reply.

"Ignoring a problem doesn't solve it," Violet said gently. "You know that."

There was a long silence. Her son hadn't moved or said anything; which probably meant he was staring at her intently.

"Then how do I solve this?" Sherlock asked, sounding as if the idea was distasteful.

Violet closed up the fridge, satisfied that her shopping had been unpacked. "I don't know, darling. That's up to you."

"I don't want to…seeing him is…unpleasant."

"You worry about him?"

Sherlock nodded hesitantly. "Stupid," he muttered.

"Curious?"

Sherlock nodded again.

"Then do what you want to do. When you work out what that is. But don't just hope the problem will go away. That's utterly stupid," she said, stepping forward to stroke his cheek. "And I don't have stupid sons."

"You haven't seen Mycroft battle with chocolate cake," Sherlock said quickly, looking away and darting from her hand. "Did you get biscuits?"

Of course she had.

* * *

**Andy**

"Must you scrounge?" Mike complained as Andy rifled through his drawers.

God knew why he bothered; it was the third time this week that Andy had done it. But if Mike did insist on hiding treats from the bakery down the way in his drawer, what did the man really expect?

"Mm," Andy grinned up at him and around the scone he'd liberated. "Know what a lock is?"

With a pitiful attempt at a disapproving glare, Mike wheeled a chair over and sat next to him. "Just spent the whole morning in a lecture room with students about to go on Christmas Holiday. I swear they paid more attention to the clock than me."

"You once sat in a lecture writing down how many minutes it was until you were released to bang Kirsty," Andy studied the scone and started to hunt down a packet of butter in Mike's top drawer.

"Who told you that?" Mike glared.

"Who do you think? John."

"I was counting down to our third date," Mike protested.

Andy nodded. "Yeah." Exactly! God, the man could be such a snob about sex.

"You seen John recently?" Mike asked taking over the butter search and chucking it at Andy.

"Nah," Andy shook his head. "Seeing him in a few days. Why?"

"No reason. What about Sherlock?"

Really? Did Mike think he was so thick that he wouldn't spot the relation between the two questions? "He doesn't want anything to do with John," Andy said warily. "You know that."

"Yeah," Mike pulled a face as he pinched a scone from the bag. "I do."

"But?"

Mike looked thoughtful for a moment and then shook his head. "Nah, nothing. I mean…Paul and I were talking about it when we saw John. It's just weird to know they won't get back together. I always thought they might, despite everything."

So had Andy, if he were honest. "Why not?" he asked, pausing between mouthfuls. "I mean…what convinced you?"

"John. The only way they were ever gonna get together again is if John worked for it, put himself out there to get Sherlock to trust him again but…he's a wreck. No way is he ever going to take that chance."

"You don't think Sherlock will?" Andy asked carefully. "John is…was important to him. He hates knowing John is like this."

"Pity?" Mike shook his head. "Nah, John won't accept anything that looks like pity, even if Sherlock did ever stoop to it." He reached out and stole the whole bag from Andy's hands. "Face it. They're done."

Andy watched Mike bite into a scone, not at all sure why that felt so wrong.

* * *

"Would Sherlock want to be friends?"

The question was so out of the blue that it took Andy a moment to answer him. "Huh?" he asked blankly.

"Never mind," John muttered, staring at his coffee.

Andy hesitated, taking a swig of beer. "I…mate you completely devastated him. He now thinks that sentiment is weakness and whinges that it blocks data, makes him stupid."

John winced.

"Friends?" Andy asked again, weighing up the idea. "You two were shit as friends."

"It wouldn't be more," John said, looking up. "How could it be more?"

Easily.

"No," Andy said after a moment. "I don't think so."

John nodded, looking unsurprised and miserable.

They both looked so fucking miserable lately.

They'd been good for each other once, before the drugs had torn at them and before the army had become an issue.

They'd been brilliant together.

His conversation with Mike made him hesitate.

Maybe…

"But then, if he gets really annoyed with it, he'll tell you to stop quick enough," Andy added.

John stilled and slowly looked back up at him. "What?" he said, as if Andy hadn't been speaking English.

"Remember when you first met and he followed you home and stalked you and pretty much did whatever he wanted until you were friends?" Andy asked. "You didn't say 'no, stop', did you?"

"No," John looked a little lost at the idea. "But…I've put him through enough-"

"So you can't be bothered? Is it a monumental effort?"

John glared. "No, but he's not likely to change his mind-"

"And you don't think he deserves to make that choice?" Andy asked, leaning back and balancing his chair on two legs, "He should be allowed to see you try and put yourself out there. Have you ever done it once for him?"

"Never had to," John said and then shook himself. "Andy, what's the point, I have nothing to offer him-"

"And nothing to lose," Andy suggested, levelling a look at him. "Not in comparison to what you have to gain."

John blinked.

"He's miserable," Andy said. "Either give him closure or give him a friend. Either way, he deserves that."

John stared at the table and then shot him a baffled look. "You realise that was five minutes without swearing?"

"Yeah," Andy pulled a face. "You have no idea how fucking hard that was!"

* * *

Next Chapter: Resolutions - Sherlock and John both make very different resolutions for the new year.


	21. Resolutions

Resolutions

Chapter Summary: John and Sherlock have very different resolutions.

* * *

"Resolutions," Sherlock said with distaste, "Are for children."

Andy, who had the maturity of a seven year old, grinned at him. "Come on. There must be one thing that you want to have completed by next year."

"I want a serial killer," Sherlock watched as Andy, sitting on a wall, swigged a beer.

There was a slight pause. "How about something a little more positive?" Andy suggested. "Like…getting laid or reconnecting with an old friend-"

"No," Sherlock stared off down the street, privately amazed that it had taken Andy so long to get to this conversation. He'd been expecting it just over a month ago when he'd told Andy about John.

"When was the last time you had a shag?"

"Unimportant," Sherlock snapped.

"No wonder you're so uptight. When I met you-"

Sherlock was utterly uninterested in taking a trip down memory lane. With a filthy look at Andy, he turned and started to walk away.

"Your hand doesn't count," Andy called after him.

Despite everything, Sherlock felt a twitch of humour bubble within him and he turned back to his friend. "Really? I thought that was how you claimed to have had sex seven times over a weekend once."

Andy laughed and jumped off the wall.

"Your love life has been quiet of late," miraculously, Sherlock thought, trying not to remember some of the idiots Andy had dated, "or have you finally learned that not everyone cares to hear about your bedding skills."

Andy shrugged uncomfortably. "Made the mistake of falling for a girl. Longing from afar. It's all very Shakespearean."

That seemed highly unlikely. Usually it was more like the adult channel on digital television.

And Andy had that look on his face again, as if he wanted to continue the earlier discussion.

"No."

"Look," Andy danced in front of him and Sherlock let out a long, bored sigh. "It's the last night of the year. Last time to mention it, okay?"

Unlikely, but it might spare him a few weeks of Andy trying to talk about it. "Speak then," Sherlock ordered, folding his arms.

"Would you ever want to be friends with him again?"

Again? When had they really been friends before?

"I mean, take the whole romance thing off the table. Would just friends be something you'd want?"

Just friends with John.

No.

But then his mother's voice echoed in his head.

"_Ignoring the problem won't make it go away."_

Maybe…maybe this would work – proving to himself that he didn't want John. That they'd both changed and no longer had a place for the other in their lives. They could fade away and then Sherlock wouldn't be plagued with John's pale face or his haunted eyes…

"I doubt we would still have much in common," Sherlock said awkwardly, looking past Andy's shoulder.

"You might not," Andy agreed. "But uh…this New Year's Eve party I'm off to? John's supposed to be going. Paul's yanking him there. So if you're following me there-"

"I'm not," Sherlock returned his gaze to Andy's face. "Mycroft has something…" he waved a dismissive hand. "Evidently I am to show my face or-"

Or his mother would be unhappy and Anthea would want revenge.

Neither was a pleasant idea to deal with.

"After?" Andy asked, dumping the bottle in the bin.

"New Year's is a good night for murder," Sherlock pointed out.

"Try," Andy suggested walking backwards. "Could be fun."

Sherlock watched him disappear into the shadows, almost frozen. For a moment all he could see was John, grinning at him at the train station as he walked backwards in the July sun.

_Could be dangerous._

* * *

It seemed that Mike and Kirsty had actually moved into a house on the edge of London.

The idea made John shiver; a house seemed far too settled, far too responsible-

He winced at the direction of his thoughts: John Watson; commitment-phobe since 1984.

"So you were in the army? Alina asked.

"Yeah," John nodded and nearly rolled his eyes in frustration when Paul shifted a little uncomfortably.

"My cousin is in the navy, you must miss it," she said sympathetically.

He did. "Yeah…just can't get used to being back."

There was an odd expression on her face. "Are you still in contact with them?"

Who?

Seeing his baffled look, she smiled. "Your army mates."

"Oh," John shook his head with a slight laugh, "Sorry, was miles away there. Yeah, a few of them. I think they find it hard at the moment."

"You should look some up," she suggested taking a sip of wine. "I'm sure you're not the only one out."

Maybe. Surprised, John nodded. "Yeah," he smiled down at his orange juice. "So, sorry, how did you and Paul meet?" he leaned forward a little to catch Paul's eye. "You didn't tell this one you were a minor Lord did you?"

Alina turned to Paul in horror. "You didn't," she scolded.

"Andy," Paul said, holding up his hands defensively.

Amazingly, the one word seemed to work and John laughed at them.

"Paul's brother introduced us," Alina said easily.

Adam? Surprised, John blinked and nodded, not really wanting to look at Paul. It was sort of a topic they'd never really brought up again, not since the one time it had been mentioned.

"We work together," Alina continued. "Adam brought Paul along to a work function as his wing man."

Well…at least his dating technique had improved.

"Oh, I said he should stop in tonight," Alina added, turning to Paul. "He seemed to think he wouldn't be welcome."

Paul stilled and flickered his gaze to John.

God, after all he'd faced recently, Adam was hardly a concern. With a careless shrug, John nodded.

Paul still seemed unconvinced.

"What?" Alina glanced between them. "Do you not get on with Adam?"

"We had a fight," John said lightly taking a sip of juice. "Years ago. Over something and nothing. It's really fine," he added to Paul.

Paul still looked unhappy with the idea and shook his head. "I'm gonna get a drink," he said suddenly.

And headed straight for the door, hand already rummaging around in his pocket for his phone.

There was a long awkward silence.

"What happened really?" Alina asked, looking at John. "There's always an odd tension between them and Paul never seems happy when I'm alone with Adam. Did they fight over a girl or something?"

Oh great!

John stared down at his drink, willing it to turn into something much stronger. "I…it…It's really not my place to say," he said, hating how evasive he sounded.

"But you had a fight with Adam. What was it over?"

"It was a drunken…incident," John looked around at the sea of faces he didn't know. None of them would be any help.

"I'm sorry," Alina sunk back into the couch. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just…I don't like secrets. And I'm marrying Paul-"

Oh for fuck sakes, was everyone tying the knot?

"-and I want to help him-"

"Alina," John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I really do get that, but you're Paul's…fiancée," he said, trying not to react to the word. "I really don't want to step on his toes or say something that he wouldn't want me to say—"

"I know," she shook her head as if to shake away the conversation, then turned to him with a slight hint of mischief. "Be interesting to see whether he remembers to pick up a drink on his way back."

John almost smiled, but it froze on his lips as a rather frustrated looking Paul followed in a noticeably heavier Adam.

Well…at least that was something.

Adam shot him a filthy look and headed straight for the drinks table.

The whole party was looking more and more like a stupid idea.

* * *

"Got shot then?" Adam asked John, sitting down opposite him.

"Got fat then?" John asked blandly, meeting his gaze.

There was a flash of fury on Adam's face. "At least I can still get laid."

John pressed his lips together, oddly amused. "I wouldn't be boasting too loudly about some of your methods for getting people on their backs. Some people have morals."

Adam glared furiously. "You little shit stirrer."

It was like a four year old having a tantrum. "You brought it up," John replied, sitting back.

Had he always been this boring?

John had a feeling the answer was a resounding yes.

"So…this yours?" Adam asked, reaching for the cane.

"Yes," John glanced at it.

Adam picked it up and walked away.

Okay then.

John took another sip of drink.

That had killed two minutes at least.

* * *

This had been such a huge mistake. Already he could feel himself starting to crawl at the idea of being around so many people and making polite conversation.

He was far too out of practise for such a party. It was almost embarrassing-

John froze as Andy walked in closely followed by…

Sherlock.

Oh god.

The last time they had seen each other John had been disgustingly suicidal and pathetic…so maybe he'd made a small step forward since.

A small, tiny one.

"Orange juice?" Andy asked with disgust as he bounced onto the couch next to John.

Tearing his gaze from Sherlock, who was looking around at the others present, John shrugged. "Can't drink and limp," he said, wincing at the terrible attempt at a joke.

"Oh come on, that would be epic-"

"Where is the cane?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Adam has it," John said with a shrug.

"Adam?" Andy pulled a confused face. "Who's-" he broke off with suddenly wide eyes. "Oh…Paul's brother?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned to the party.

"Yeah," John pulled a face. "Was he always so…pathetically annoying?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. "Have I completely blocked that?"

"Nah," Andy glanced at Sherlock who was still studying the people in the kitchen and dining room. "He just wanted to get you into bed so made an effort with you. He's a whiny shit-"

"Why does he have your cane?" Sherlock asked.

"Bugger if I know," John said looking at him again, eyes raking down the suit and unfamiliar coat. What had happened to the one John had bought him? "I think he thought I'd get angry or upset or make a scene…" he shook his head. "It's a mystery."

"You…" Sherlock glanced at him. "Do you want it back?"

John tilted his head to Andy. "Be my cane?" he asked, trying to make the topic a little lighter.

Andy laughed. "Your cane might be a bit drunk," he grinned. "Treat me for alcohol poisoning?"

"It's like the blind leading the blind," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head before vanishing into the kitchen.

"So…he came?" John muttered, staring after Sherlock.

Andy nodded slowly and looked at him pointedly.

"What? I can't go after him. There's nothing less attractive than someone crawling after you," John scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "This is a bad idea," he decided.

"Yeah," Andy took a swig of beer. "Instead of sitting at home alone, you're sitting here alone. Not bothered that you can't go and talk to people."

"Oh, fuck off," John hissed suddenly.

"All I'm saying is-"

"Fuck off!" John said a little louder. "I am beyond not in the mood for this."

"John-"

Frustrated and furious, John got off the sofa and walked away, slamming out of the house and into the back garden.

For fuck sakes, they had a back garden? Had Mike inhaled the family stereotype? And Jesus, it was freezing cold-

John let out a yelp as his leg suddenly throbbed in agony and he buckled against the wall of the house.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Sinking to the ground, John almost laughed.

This was pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.

How had he thought this would work? How?

Closing his eyes he breathed, trying not to shiver from the cold, even as the freshness of the evening soothed him and calmed him down.

The noise of the party suddenly got louder and then dimmed again. Someone let out a long breath and then sat down next to him.

"Your cane," Sherlock said.

Surprised, John glanced at him and then at the offered cane. Not at all sure what to say, he took it from Sherlock and placed it carefully on the ground.

"I'm not…" John frowned and looked over at Sherlock whose face was half in shadow from the window above. "Do you know what we're meant to say to each other?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm hardly an expert on the social contract."

"Are things…good?"

"Most things," Sherlock said after a pause.

John stared at the fence and steeled himself, trying to remember what Andy had said. "I…the last time we saw each other…I said I missed you." He swallowed. "I meant to say that I miss you. And…" he weighed up the words he wanted to use. "I know I hurt you and I chose to leave so…but I…I didn't want to lose you from my life. And if…I know that anything more than friends is beyond out of the question but, if you want it, I want to. Be your friend."

It was hardly the best speech he'd ever given. Too stuttered and hesitant and far, far too nervous.

"No."

John felt an absurd urge to laugh, wondering if this was how Sherlock had felt when John had said no.

Probably not. That had probably been worse.

There was an odd thickness in his throat that he tried to clear away but wouldn't leave.

"I don't know," Sherlock suddenly said with a frustrated sigh and a slight dull thud. Surprised at the noise, John turned to look at him and saw Sherlock with his head against the wall, looking up at the sky.

"You don't trust me," John said nodding slightly.

"I don't want to want to."

That was understandable, John supposed. It hurt like hell, but was unsurprising.

"I'm amazed we're even talking," John said softly.

"I don't want to care," Sherlock said, still looking up. "It seems to be a hard habit to break."

Right.

Habit.

"Okay," John swallowed. "I'll be really, bluntly honest." There was a slight scrape as Sherlock turned his head to look at John. "I want to be in your life and be friends and I know you…you probably hate that idea. But…tell me honestly why you're talking to me and I'll honestly tell you what I plan on doing with that information."

"We have nothing in common and I am waiting for the curiosity to die away," Sherlock said flatly.

God that hurt.

"Closure," John nodded.

"If you must call it that," Sherlock said, wincing at the idea.

"Okay," John clenched his fist and let out a long, deep breath. "What if I let you? If I try to be your friend and either we find that we've gone too far and have nothing left or we find that we can be friends. Would that be all right?"

"You hope for the latter," Sherlock said, finally looking at him properly.

"And you for the former," John shrugged. "But either way, for either of us to get what we want, we still have to talk."

Sherlock pulled an odd, annoyed face and muttered something that John couldn't hear. "You've changed," he said in a louder tone.

"So have you," John replied softly. "You know where you are in the world, what you can do. It's…it's good to see. I kept you from that."

"No," Sherlock's jaw was tight. "You made me redefine it after…after. What I thought I was…" Sherlock looked deeply uncomfortable. "We are not together and so I no longer…it no longer defines me."

Jesus. This was hard. Feeling an odd tightness at what Sherlock was implying John pressed his lips together, remembering all those times when he had thought himself only Sherlock Holmes' partner and had railed against it. But Sherlock...had Sherlock been happy to define himself simply as John's partner?

It was so strange to think that he had thought that too, but had been content with it. Sherlock, who John was sure, was the most unruly, unordinary man on the planet had been happy just being John's?

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I never knew that you thought that and were happy with...the idea of being just yours scared the shit out of me."

Sherlock let out an odd laugh. "I gathered," he said, sounding utterly bitter about it.

"You cast a long shadow, Sherlock," John said quietly after a while.

Sherlock suddenly shook himself. "I have no wish to discuss this. It is done," he announced. "Finished. Talking will change nothing." He stood up so quickly that John blinked in confusion at the sight.

"Get up," Sherlock hissed at him. "Or are you hoping you'll meet your end by freezing to death?"

No. God, no. The last thing he wanted was to have Sherlock watch him struggle pathetically. "You go, I'll follow," John said.

Sherlock blinked in confusion and then stared at the cane. "It's psychosomatic," he said frankly. "Just stand up."

"Go inside," John ordered, feeling humiliation threaten again. "I'll manage."

An odd noise echoed above him and then a hand was held out.

No part of John wanted to take it, to do so felt like admitting defeat, admitting how pathetic he was.

But he could hardly refuse an offer of Sherlock's. Not again.

Hesitantly, John reached for the hand and then above to the wrist, trying to keep the touch more…casual he supposed. Sherlock felt slightly warmer than John and it was strange to touch and feel-

Sherlock tugged almost violently and John felt himself lifted in a move that made his good shoulder wince. The moment he was on his feet, Sherlock let go and John stumbled back against the wall.

The fucking cane was still on the-

John scraped his hands against the wall as Sherlock bent to pick it up. Sherlock studied the wood thoughtfully.

In the distance and in the house behind the wall at John's back, a cheer went up and fireworks lit the sky.

They both looked up at the light exploding across the sky, lighting up the garden.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," John said softly.

* * *

**3****rd**** January**

"It's just locum work," the woman said apologetically. "I know you'll be used to more exciting work-"

"Even soldiers got colds," John dismissed with a smile. "Less exciting sounds…" absolutely terrifying, "good right now."

She nodded and got the forms.

He had a job.

He had a chance.

* * *

"Well?" Mrs Hudson asked as Sherlock stood staring at the flat. "What do you think?"

For the price she was offering?

"I'll have it," Sherlock announced, running his hand along the mantel piece and walking to the window.

"There are two rooms," Mrs Hudson pointed out. "Will you be getting a flat share?"

Sherlock stared out at the view he had seen at a different angle years ago.

How strange that the last time he had been here had been with John, when they had been discussing saving their relationship.

On that very street he had decided to ask John to marry him.

Idiot.

"Sherlock?"

Shaking himself, he turned to look at her.

"Will you be getting a flat share?"

"No," he shook his head and turned back to the window. "I prefer to be alone."

Alone was safer. And the sooner he purged himself of the remnant feelings he had for John, the better.

* * *

Next Chapter: A Study in Perserverance - Uh...I doubt a summary is needed!


	22. A Study in Perserverance

A study in perseverance

Chapter Summary: As John watches Sherlock from a distance, trying to work out a way to be of some use, Sherlock is finally faced with a gloriously confusing case of serial suicides.

This is a rewrite/au take of A Study in Pink. So disclaimer wise...not mine!

* * *

**January 2010**

Whoever it was that was banging on his door was starting to get annoying. Reluctantly, John stood and limped over, throwing open the door.

"You," Andy grinned, "With me, now."

"Why?" John asked, frowning at him. "It's almost eight-"

"Case!"

* * *

Brixton at night was depressing enough without the police lines and scattered crowds standing watch. Oddly self-conscious, John followed Andy who ducked under the police lines without hesitation before holding them up for John

"And how will this help?"

"Well, for starters, you're out of that fucking awful place," Andy said conversationally. "And secondly, don't you want to see what he does? Properly this time, not from the side lines while he wraps you up in cotton wool so he can shag you later?"

"That…" John winced, nodding at the officer that turned at Andy's words with a slightly curious look. "That's not quite what-"

"Oh, it is. He admitted it a few months back during a rare semi-emotional day." Andy started to climb the stairs.

"Those were the exact words he used?"

"Ish." Andy turned and grinned. "Keep up."

* * *

Upstairs there were people in decontamination suits wandering in and out of the room and guarding it with a startling amount of protectiveness, which John took to mean that Sherlock had probably just blazed through, destroying all semblance of order. It almost made John smile that the protective glares simply doubled when the officers spotted Andy.

Clearly he and Sherlock were spending far too much time together.

"Himself about?" Andy asked in an overly friendly way.

"No," Lestrade turned and pointed at Andy. "I've just had Sherlock all over the crime scene before he tore off babbling in excitement. I don't need you here as-"

His voice trailed off as his eyes met John's and widened in recognition. Then a hint of anger passed across his face as he turned his attention back to Andy. "I thought you were meant to be his mate?" he hissed.

"I am. There's a plan," Andy assured him though Lestrade's expression didn't change. "So…what did Sherlock tell you?"

"Harrison, I don't actually need to have you here," Lestrade snapped at Andy. "Or your mate. Sherlock's gone off like a kid at Christmas so-"

"Serial killer then?" John asked quietly.

They turned to look at him.

"Well…he always wanted one," John muttered, suddenly aware of the attention he was receiving.

Andy's eyes lit up. "The suicides? They're murders?"

"No," Lestrade looked as if he were trying to douse a fire. "No, I never said that. Don't you dare quote me as saying that."

Andy grinned and clapped an arm around John's shoulders. "Knew you'd be handy, mate."

* * *

"You know Sherlock Holmes?"

John turned, startled out of watching Andy chat to the people around the tapes, trying to add a bit of scope to his story. "I do, yes," he said watching the female officer approach him. "Why?"

"You one of those 'friends'?" she asked, nodding at Andy. "The people he convinces he's normal?"

John clicked his jaw from side to side, considering the ways to answer that. "I'm not entirely sure Sherlock would call me a friend," he said slowly.

"Well, a bit of advice then, stay away from that guy," she said seriously, looking ever so slightly uncomfortable.

"Why?" The word was bittenout like a bullet from a gun.

She looked at him considering the question with an almost amused air, as if deciding how best to phrase what she wanted to say. "You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it," her voice relaxed a little, clearly sure of what she was saying. "He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off and you know what," she took an almost cathartic breath, "One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?" John asked, watching her carefully.

"Because he's a psychopath," she replied easily, "Psychopath's get bored."

John pressed his lips together, absorbing what she had just said, the ease and belief in her words as if she had told him a truth that she needed to get off her chest.

"Donovan," Lestrade called from the house.

She turned and glanced at Lestrade, nodding in acknowledgment before she turned back to John. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she said seriously.

It was probably the first time in a long time that someone had said that to him for his own protection and not for Sherlock's.

"He's my ex," he said suddenly, not even sure why he was saying it, "And you don't know the first thing about him," he added calmly, letting her see how certain he was of his words.

"You're the soldier," she murmured in surprise.

"I was," John nodded. "Good luck with the case detective. And um…be sure of facts before you voice them."

She studied him.

"Donovan," Lestrade called again, sounding far more irate this time. "Move!"

She nodded at John then turned away.

* * *

Andy had told him to go home as he would be interviewing and chasing up leads for what would probably be a while yet. Accepting that, John started off towards the main road in search of a taxi, though he winced at the idea of paying for the ride back.

There was no way he could stay in London at this rate. He'd have to accept it soon or find something, anything that could cater to his leg.

He'd have to. If he left London now then he would never have the chance to win Sherlock back.

As he walked a phone started to ring in a phone box.

He ignored it.

* * *

The second time he heard it ring he had failed to flag down a taxi and the phone in the café next to him rang off as a worker approached it.

John stopped and tapped his cane on the floor, then looked at the nearest phone box_._ Slowly he looked up, searching for a camera.

The moment he noticed one the camera moved up and down, as if nodding.

Great. As if the night hadn't been difficult enough.

The car, perfectly polished and a far more expensive and newer make than he was used to, pulled up next to him.

Well…at least it saved him a taxi fare, though he wouldn't put it past Mycroft to demand to be paid for the inconvenience of driving him about to warn him off Sherlock.

* * *

Anthea looked pointedly at the cane as he got in the car.

"Yes," he sat down next to her. "You don't need to say it. Everyone else has."

She pulled a face and tapped away at her blackberry. "He's not pleased with you."

"What else is new?" John asked, sitting back. "You still together?"

"Mm," she said with little interest.

"You're not going to talk to me are you?"

"I'm sure I'll hear about it later," Anthea said mildly. "I do hate wasting my time listening to something twice."

* * *

Mycroft stood in an empty wet and filthy warehouse of all places.

John really had gone down in his estimations then.

"Have a seat, John," Mycroft suggested in a very pleasant manner.

Danger!

"You know I have a phone?" John asked, limping heavily over to him. "It would be far easier just to phone me, on my phone. I already know that you could make me vanish if you wanted to."

Mycroft smiled. "I thought you might need a reminder. You seem to be very forgetful lately. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down," he ordered with that same shark smile that Sherlock displayed on occasion to people he despised.

"I don't want to sit down," John levelled his chin at Mycroft, refusing to be cowed

Mycroft studied him imperiously, as if John were a bug that had crawled across his shoe. "Why not? You're hardly fooling anyone John. That limp is rather…cumbersome."

John flexed his hands on his cane and didn't say a word.

"It's almost admirable, trying to get his attention once again. Brave perhaps," Mycroft tilted his head. "Brave in a way you failed to be years ago."

"Maybe," John nodded. "But this time, I'm not giving into your demands."

There was a flicker of something on Mycroft's face. "You ran to the army John."

"And you patted my head in approval and opened all the doors," John reminded him.

"Because we both knew you couldn't stand up to him. All that my brother has suffered by your hands has been because you were too afraid to do what was necessary at the time and let the wounds fester."

"Well, thank god you were there to interfere and protect him," John said, staring at the exit sign before glancing at Mycroft. "We deeply benefited from you playing big brother."

Mycroft's cool gaze narrowed, "Tell me, do you plan to continue this attempt to associate with Sherlock?"

John smiled. "I could be wrong, but I don't think it's any of your business," he said firmly.

"No?" Mycroft silkily asked.

"No," John confirmed. "It really isn't. He's old enough to make his own choices Mycroft, whether or not they please you or me. Let him make that choice."

Mycroft considered him. "You are living on an army pension and hoping for some locum work, correct? It must be hard in this climate, to find a means to support yourself. I'm sure that, should you wish it, I could find you suitable employment. Elsewhere."

"No," John said simply.

"I haven't mentioned the salary."

"Don't bother," John said, lifting his head.

"Do you really think he will ever willingly agree to see you?" Mycroft asked suddenly. "You, who broke his heart and left him for a career? Do you think he would ever be happy knowing he was the second choice, that you want him now because your glory days are behind you? Why would he, looking at what is left of you?"

"Not interested," John said blandly, keeping eye contact with him and refusing to flinch. He'd been victim to his subconscious more times than Mycroft could ever know.

"Trust issues," Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a notebook, "It says here."

What?

"What's that?" John asked, trying to swallow down his sudden nerves. If those were his therapy notes then…who had stolen them?

Mycroft or Sherlock?

"Nightmares," Mycroft continued. "Issues with intimacy and affection, dating back far before your injury. Concerns that you were working your way through the entire army," Mycroft pulled a face. "Do you honestly believe that you have anything to offer Sherlock besides pain and misery? A burden in the unlikely case that he forgives you?"

This was pointless. He'd rather walk home than listen to Mycroft read him his damned therapy notes. Turning, John started to walk away.

"But your left hand tells me that you're determined to see this through, despite the pain it will cause him."

"My what?" John turned to him. "Are you channelling your brother now?"

"Your hand," Mycroft stepped forward, "May I?"

Reluctantly, John held it out to him, keeping a close eye on him as Mycroft prodded at his palm.

"Fascinating," Mycroft said. "You have two tremors. The fake one brought on by your awareness of the real one. This Ella Thompson notes seeing it, despite the lack of strain to your hand.

"And?" John asked, no longer surprised by his body's inability to be controlled.

"She concluded that it was from post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by the memories of your military service-"

"Stop," John warned, glaring at him.

"But we both know that you loved it, that it was the thing you valued above all else. Fire her, she's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand's perfectly steady." An odd, almost Sherlockian expression crossed Mycroft's face. "You're not haunted by the war, John. You miss it. You will always miss it and he will always know that."

John refused to look away.

"You never chose to stay," Mycroft stepped away. "And he will never trust that you want to, even if it does become the case." He took a deep breath as he smiled triumphantly. Behind him, John heard Anthea approach from the car. "My dear, take John home would you. And do give him the number of Mr Merrick in case he sees the light and spares us all the pain of watching this charade."

* * *

Back at the bedsit, John stared down at the gun in the drawer.

Damn Mycroft.

He was right, partly. Of course he was; it was one of the many reasons John would never have a romantic relationship with Sherlock again.

Mycroft's sentiment however, was not echoed by Andy.

"Meet me at Northumberland Street," he said over the crap phone line.

"What? Why?" John scrubbed at his face as he reached out to shut the drawer.

"-could- meeting…danger-"

Glaring in disapproval at his phone, John gave up and ended the call, moving to close the drawer.

Danger?

John stared down at the gun, torn.

* * *

Andy was late.

John stared at nothing knowing he stuck out enough as it was. It was always easier for people to spot him than he them.

"Andy's idea, I assume?" Sherlock's voice asked.

Startled, John turned. "Ah," he winced. "I didn't-"

"No," Sherlock looked over his head. "I can see that."

"Sorry," John shook his head, feeling slightly off balance from meeting Mycroft. "I'll go-"

"No. I need to talk and talking to one's self draws attention. Follow me."

John blinked in surprise.

All right then, he wasn't going to argue.

* * *

"I saw Mycroft," John said as he sat with his back to the window. Sherlock stared out behind him, filled with an odd anticipation that John had never really seen before.

It was…brilliant to see him like that.

"Unimportant," Sherlock muttered.

"And the case?" John asked watching a familiar looking person behind the bar.

"You know some of it," Sherlock said, sounding distracted.

"I thought you wanted a sounding board?"

Sherlock's gaze snapped to him suddenly. "He shook you up," Sherlock said, gaze darting over John's face. "You're more unsure of yourself today."

"Wouldn't say that," John said, resisting the urge to fidget with ease. "Just having a better day," he said, thinking of that hideous New Year's party.

"I wouldn't say that either," Sherlock murmured. "The killer has her phone, I texted him to come here."

"Why would he come?" John asked curiously.

"I made it sound as if I were the victim. He'll be curious, all the clever ones are." Sherlock peered out again. "How is he doing it? Passing us by, unnoticed?" he clicked his tongue, distracted by the puzzle again.

"Disguise?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "No. More often than not they make you stand out, they make you different. This is the opposite, being ordinary and not hiding. The hardest people to find are those that are normal and ordinary sights."

"A certain job then?" John asked.

Sherlock turned his gaze to him thoughtfully.

"Ah, Sherlock!" A man came over, full of energy and sheer presence as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock. "How are you?"

Sherlock just nodded, the look in his eyes suggesting that he had caught an idea.

"Do I know you?" John asked, peering up at the man. "Wait…years ago…you were the car thief."

"Ah, the boyfriend," Angelo sounded delighted.

"Ah, no," John sat forward suddenly panicked. "No-"

"No," Sherlock said with less concern in his voice.

John shook his head in agreement.

"It's okay lads," Angelo assured them. "We don't mind your lot, especially as he helped me. I'll get a candle. More romantic."

"No," John leaned forward and gave up with a frustrated wave of his hand as Angelo wandered off in search of the candle. A glance at Sherlock showed the man was staring out the window again. "Should um…probably correct him," he said slowly. "You know…in case you want to bring a date here."

"Not really my area," Sherlock replied absently.

Relief, a stupid amount of relief, pumped through him. "No?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as light as possible.

Sherlock glanced over at him, then out and back. "Why would you care?" he asked frankly. "We have discussed this. You wish to attempt to be friends, I wish closure. Anything else is off the table."

"Friends talk about that." Or the lack of that. John thought, trying to ignore the thrum of worry that shivered through him at Sherlock's words. He wasn't entirely sure he could bear the idea of Sherlock with anyone else yet.

Hypocritical as it was.

"We will not be," Sherlock sniffed, looking out again. "Whether or not you succeed in your foolhardy plan."

"So what am I doing here?"

"I think better when I talk aloud. Andy isn't here and the skull attracts attention when I go out. Do keep up, John."

"Of course," John nodded, rolling his eyes as the candle was brought over. He smiled at Angelo tightly.

"There," Sherlock suddenly breathed, not paying any attention at all to what was going on inside the restaurant. "That cab, it's been there for a while. No-one getting in or out."

"You think he's in a taxi?"

"Yes, that's clever. Is it?" Sherlock breathed as John turned to have a look. "No don't stare, you can't stare."

"You are," John pointed out.

"We can't both stare," Sherlock said as he grabbed his scarf. Once again, John was struck by how strange it was to see the different coat on him. "Stay here, in case. Keep an eye out. Dinner's free."

"Sherlock-"

"You'll slow me down."

John winced and closed his eyes as Sherlock darted out of the restaurant door. He didn't turn, didn't want to see Sherlock chasing off into the dark where he couldn't follow.

Great.

* * *

"Where's Sherlock gone?" Angelo asked with a frown.

"Chasing…" John floundered. "Murderers or a taxi…" He shrugged. "Who knows?"

"You didn't go with him?" Angelo asked in disapproval, lifting up the plate.

John tapped at the cane pointedly. "He reckoned I'd slow him down."

Angelo shifted, looking almost uncomfortable. "You want dessert? Anything for the boyfriend of Sherlock Holmes-"

"We're really not," John said, a bite to his voice. "I refused to marry him so we're really not."

It was like watching shutters come down.

"Twenty five pounds then," Angelo said, narrowing his eyes.

Of course it was.

* * *

Outside, the January air was cool and crisp, the passers-by hurrying along to escape the cold. John stood, hesitating outside the restaurant.

This wasn't going at all the way he'd planned.

Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes and steadied himself.

Was he completely kidding himself with this?

His phone rumbled in his trousers and he fumbled for it, trying to juggle the cane and his balance-

"Andy?"

"Are you near a taxi?" Andy asked frantically.

Glancing down the road, John eyed the taxi rank. "I've just had to pay for a meal-"

"Sherlock's gone after the killer. Alone."

John paused. "Have you told the police?"

"Can't get through. Lestrade's engaged and they have a slight issue with me on the switchboard-" Andy cut himself off. "Just get in the taxi. I'll direct you.

"To?" John asked, crossing the road.

"Uh…dunno yet. They're still on the move."

John hissed in frustration. "They're? What is he travelling with this killer?" he asked, walking over to the closest taxi.

"Uh…funny you should mention that…he might be."

"He might be?" John turned to yell down the phone at Andy. "What the hell do you mean he might be?"

"I don't…look, would you just get in a fucking taxi!"

Pulling the phone from his ear, John obediently got in the fucking taxi.

"Where to mate?" the driver asked from the front.

"You're gonna love this," John sighed.

* * *

"Shall we talk?" the cabbie asked Sherlock, sitting himself down. Jefferson Hope, Sherlock thought, thinking of the name upon the swinging badge draped over the mirror, had been rather cruelly named, given his current hobby.

Why not? He had little to lose.

"Bit risky wasn't it?" Sherlock said once he had settled comfortably into the chair. Hardly any point in being uncomfortable during what was promising to be a mildly interesting conversation. "You took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen and a reporter? They're not that stupid." Well…most of them weren't. "And Mrs Hudson will remember you."

"Call that a risk?" Hope sounded unimpressed. "Nah," he said, reaching into his pocket awkwardly. "This is a risk."

And with that he pulled out a pill in a jar.

The poison.

But there was a smugness in Hope's eyes that showed he still had more. "Oh, I like this bit, because you still don't get it yet do ya?" He asked triumphantly. "But you're about to."

He put another jar on the table.

Two.

A choice.

"Weren't expecting that, were you? Oh but you're gonna love this."

* * *

"Have you got through to him yet?" John demanded.

"How the hell would you like me to do that? I'm on the phone to you and genius doesn't have a landline. "Turn left," Andy added quickly.

This was insane. "Left here, please," John said to the cabbie. "Hasn't he got any flatmates?"

"The landlady popped out. I think she was a bit pissed off when he yelled at her in the middle of a drugs bust."

"A…" John shook his head. How the hell did Sherlock manage to get in these situations? He'd only seen him an hour ago!

* * *

"You're not playing the numbers, you're playing me," Hope snarled, clearly incensed by the idea that it was merely chance.

Fascinating. There was some game then. But he hadn't come up with it, or at least not fully.

Help from the 'fan'?

Possibly. And that would be interesting.

"Was it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?"

Ah, trying to make it seem better than it was and lose Sherlock's thought process in doubts. A pitiful attempt for someone that had been at the mercy of John Watson's scattered intentions.

"It's still just chance," Sherlock said, bored of the monologue. Anything to avoid the man reaching a quadruple bluff and embarrassing them both when the idiot tried to work out what would come next.

"Four people, in a row? It's not chance-"

Four? Only four. No attempts earlier then? No building up to it. "Luck," Sherlock said just to see the reaction.

"It's genius."

Really?

"I know how people think-"

Please. No-one could see that. They could see what people did, what the consequences of thought were but not how they thought. If Sherlock couldn't see that then a terrible cabbie couldn't either.

But the fact that he thought he could meant something. Arrogance, an arrogance festered by the fact that people couldn't see that the cabbie was slightly above the average intelligence. His dissatisfaction and condescension of the people around him had fed that misconception.

"-I know how people think I think," Hope continued on. "I can see it all, like a map inside my head."

Map? Terrible way to organise information. No self-respecting genius would do that.

"Everyone's so stupid, even you."

Really? Sherlock met his eyes again.

Oh, he was going to enjoy this. He was going to beat him.

"Or maybe God just loves me," Hope said, his voice not quite catching the usual sarcasm most would have.

Interesting…a man raised in faith or a man turning to faith…

Sherlock sat up, leaning forward on the table to study his subject in more depth. "Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie," he observed generously.

* * *

"Okay, you're there," Andy announced as if he'd led John to Sherlock's feet.

He hadn't.

"There are two buildings," John hissed down the phone, glancing between the two as the taxi drove away.

"What?"

"Two buildings," John repeated, frustrated. "Can't you zoom in?"

"It's not a fucking army satellite, John, it's Bing. You're lucky I got you as close as I did!"

"Well, which one is it?" John demanded.

"I don't…" Andy let out a sigh. "I'll try Lestrade again. See if you can find him."

And with that he hung up.

Left or right?

John picked one and ran.

* * *

"I've outlived four people," Hope sneered his correction. Clearly a nerve had been hit there. So not enjoying killing people for the power of it, but for the intelligence behind the method. "That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism."

No…most people like that fantasized about it, but never did it. They wrote crime books or bragged about their ideas down the pub because they wanted the applause.

Without the enjoyment, the power, few ever made that step.

Why had he?

"No, there's something else…you didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic."

Why had Sherlock himself nearly killed?

John.

Ah.

"Love is a much more vicious motivator," he snarled, hating it, because of the simple truth in the statement. He forcibly nudged himself off track. But who would a man like Hope kill for?

"Your children," Sherlock said, delighted at having found the missing piece. "Somehow, this is about your children."

"Oh," Hope ran his tongue over his teeth as if unsure about something. Unsettled? Excellent. "You are good aren't ya?"

He was brilliant.

"Especially for someone still in love."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "Sentiment is weakness," he sneered. "You of all people should know that. It's why you're here playing this little game, about to be caught."

"It's why you're here too, isn't it?"

How irritating.

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called, feeling more and more panicked as he started to realise the maze of the place he was in. And God help him if he had picked the wrong building. "Sherlock?"

His phone went.

"Found him?" Andy demanded as John answered.

"No," John jogged down the hall. "Got hold of the police?"

"Yeah. They're on their way."

Good.

"Are you running?" Andy asked suddenly sounding baffled.

"You would prefer me to what? Pigeon step?"

"Anything that isn't limping is good with me mate."

John faltered for a moment.

The cane.

He'd left it on the wall of the restaurant.

Huh.

Shaking it away he continued to search.

* * *

"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here," Sherlock mused as he looked about, the conversation suddenly holding less interest for him.

Conversations about love rarely produced anything useful in his experience.

A gun was pulled on him.

Sherlock didn't even flinch. Seeing John with one had erased any feelings…wait…he studied the muzzle.

Fake.

Oh, dear. How dull.

"You can take a fifty-fifty chance or I can shoot you in the head."

Well…this was going to end disappointingly. For both of them.

"I'll take the gun," Sherlock said, cutting across Hope.

* * *

"I don't even know if I'm in the right building," John hissed at Andy.

"Look, I'm on my way there. We'll find him."

They'd better.

It couldn't end like this.

It couldn't.

* * *

A lighter. How embarrassing.

Standing, Sherlock walked to the door.

"Before you go, did you figure it out? Which one's the good bottle?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, turning from the door. "Child's play."

"Which one then? Which one would you have picked? Just so I know."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the door.

Tempted.

"Come on," Hope wheedled. "Play the game. Without sentiment."

* * *

John nearly thumped the wall with frustration.

Nothing.

Nowhere.

Not even a noise.

Dammit.

What if he'd missed them? What if Sherlock was already-

Don't even go there, he scolded himself.

* * *

"So what do you think?" Hope asked, the pill out. "Shall we?"

There was triumph in his voice as Sherlock studied the bottle he'd picked off the table.

Was it there because the cabbie thought he was about to die or about to win?

Or because he'd managed to shake Sherlock.

Could be any reason. Sherlock had made his move now, there was no way to tell anything more.

"Really, what do'ya think? Can you beat me?"

Could he?

"Are you clever enough? To bet your life?"

Life?

John.

What was left to bet?

* * *

John burst through the door.

Oh god no.

Sherlock stood with his back to John.

In the fucking opposite building, seperated through two bloody windows.

The pill. Both of them had a pill.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

"A man like you, a man so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? If you have no-one around to prove it to?"

So, the fan knew then. Hardly surprising; half of London seemed to know about his failed relationship. Sherlock took the pill out and held it to the light, trying to determine.

Was it worth the risk?

What was he risking?

Was this how John felt, sitting with the gun? Alive? Tempted?

Unconcerned?

"You said it," Hope smiled. "The most vicious motivator. You won't be able to help yourself. Anything to avoid being sucked in again. Being stupid again."

Yes.

"I should know," Hope said, sounding bitter. "It chews at you, cripples you. Holds you back."

Yes.

"Together," Hope lifted the pill close to his mouth. "Which one of us will escape it first?"

A shot rang out.

* * *

Before Sherlock thought to turn to look at who had fired the shot John ducked and almost collapsed against the wall.

Sherlock had almost…

John leaned forward, sick to his stomach.

_Don't mention I was here earlier, please? _

Seconds later a text came through from Andy. _Why?_

_You'll see._

Trying to catch his breath, John thumped his head back against the wall.

Sherlock needed help.

And nothing in the world was tearing John from Sherlock's side until he had managed that.

Suddenly, stupid as it was, a grin crossed his face.

He'd been useful. He'd helped, contributed.

For the first time, he had saved Sherlock's life, properly.

Taking a risk he stood. His leg didn't give way.

Good.

* * *

"-You're looking for a man with a military background-"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said pointedly.

"A shot like that would be difficult, so look at those with specific training-"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said again, looking oddly amused.

"What?"

Lestrade nodded at the lines, at the small crowd that had formed and a figure next to them-

John.

Oh!

John stood, absolutely straight as if to attention and without the cane. His hands were clasped behind his back as he watched what was happening with an air of polite curiosity.

Oh.

"You're in shock, right?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes," Sherlock tore his eyes away. "Yes. Shock. I have a blanket, don't know what I'm saying."

"Want me to take the blanket?" Lestrade asked.

Awkward, Sherlock unwrapped the blanket and tossed it to one side before making his way over to John.

There had been a certain…comfort he supposed in seeing John with his hunched shoulders and the tight set to his lips as he held the cane. A lack of danger because John, despite what he said, didn't have the confidence to push things…

But this man, standing at the crime scene was straight backed, calm, confident and dangerous in so many ways.

"You got rid of the gun?" Sherlock asked, stopping opposite him, just out of arms reach.

"No," John said frankly. "I need something for next time."

Next time?

"You just killed a man," Sherlock said quietly, clasping his hands behind his back as he studied John. "You should be more cautious."

"Well, he wasn't a very nice man," John said simply. "And you really can't lecture me about being cautious after what you nearly did."

"It was the correct pill-"

John shook his head and sighed, looking away to the side. "Can't kid a kidder, Sherlock."

Unsure of what to say to that, Sherlock drew in a frustrated breath. "You lost the limp then."

"It was psychosomatic," John glanced at him with some amusement. "You should be crowing to the moon for being correct."

"A gun in your hands and the limp goes away. Your love affair with the army is ridiculous, John-"

"You were in danger and the limp went away," John said flatly, anger bubbling beneath the surface of his words.

Sherlock just raised a doubtful eyebrow then narrowed his eyes with the success of the tact when John muttered under his breath and turned away.

End it.

Finish it. Now. Before it gets worse.

After a quick glance back at the police lines, Sherlock darted after John, down one of the side roads.

"It was stupid," Sherlock called to John's retreating form. "Did you hope that you would save my life and we'd be friends?"

John turned almost mid step and walked back to him. "What?" he asked, sounding infuriated. "You think I did that to make you owe me something?"

"I owe you nothing," Sherlock snarled, dangerously close to pushing at him. "Nothing. Do you hear me? No matter what you do, I owe you-"

"Nothing, yeah, I get it," John hissed. "I know that, knew that a year ago, Sherlock. I pulled the trigger for the same damn reason you walked into the bedsit months ago-"

"Pity?" Sherlock asked cruelly.

It was a small triumph that John faltered for a second and wavered. "Maybe not the same reason then," he said doggedly. "I did it because the world would be a damn sight worse without you in it."

"Really? That didn't seem to be the case eighteen months ago," Sherlock snarled, pushing at him. "Fickle, are we John? Certainly the reputation as 'Three Continents' would attest to that-"

John blinked and stumbled back. "How the hell do you know-"

"Your reputation precedes you," Sherlock followed him, delighted by the retreat. Finally. "Climbing into bed with anyone that would have you-"

"You can hardly look down your nose at me for that," John hissed. "My reputation in the army was nothing to yours years ago-"

"Were you that desperate?" Sherlock continued, blithely ignoring him. "For someone else to be in your bed? Bored with fidelity?"

"Don't you dare talk to me about which one of us was bored," John hissed, something sparking up within him as he pushed back, suddenly in Sherlock's space. "And for that matter, don't you dare presume to know my reasons-"

"I don't care," Sherlock snapped at him, almost touching skin with the force of his words. "Your petty motivations are of no interest to me. I simply count myself lucky to have had a fortunate escape-"

"I bet you fucking do," John almost spat at him, his breathing thudding out in heavy pants across Sherlock's face.

Close.

Too close.

Sherlock leaned forward and their eyes suddenly met.

They both froze.

It was like someone had taken a photograph and they were both trapped within it. So, so close…Sherlock could feel soft puffs of breath of his lips, the warmth of John, the faint hint of his smell. He could see John's Adam's apple bounce as he swallowed hesitantly.

"I'm sorry," John breathed as he suddenly stepped back, breaking the odd spell that had been over them. "I…" he looked down and away, his shoulders hunching. "Of course you don't owe me anything," he said sounding odd. "And…you're an idiot for nearly taking that pill."

What the hell had he almost just done? He'd leaned in…down…

Why?

Sherlock stared at John in horror. He'd been so sure he was over it, that he could manage and not indulge that nagging, weak, pleading voice that occasionally stirred when John was around.

Habit. That was it, that had to be it. It was simply habit…

They'd never fought like that. John had never fought back quite like that. Like they wouldn't back down or walk away, like they would just keep going until they somehow blended together-

Stupid. Utterly stupid.

"I have no wish to speak to you again," Sherlock breathed, stepping back. "We are done."

John flinched but studied him. "I don't think we are," John said slowly. "But…I am sorry. I shouldn't have leaned in like that."

John had leaned in?

Was he being honest or trying to ease-

He didn't care. No matter what the answer was, Sherlock did not care.

"You won't remain in London longer than a month," Sherlock stepped back. "I'll ensure it."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

* * *

Tests: John receives a rather unexpected letter and must make a choice, weighing up the good and the bad.


	23. Tests

Tests

Chapter Summary: John receives a rather unexpected letter and must make a choice, weighing up the good and the bad.

* * *

**February 2010**

Mistake?

John sat heavily on the bed staring at the papers in his hand.

Mistake.

Clenching his jaw, he flicked through the documentation, scanning each page. There were Phelps' notes about their meetings and tests and then an additional note apologising for overlooking the last test results. Turning past the pages of notes again, John stared at the results.

They were not his results.

Those numbers had been burned into his brain; he knew every single fucking one of them. Had even, at the time, self-deprecatingly thought they might be the last test results he'd ever have cause to remember.

Then there were notes from the therapist detailing how he had overcome his PTSD (not quite true), the limp (true enough) and his trust issues.

He had to say, the letter was hardly helping those trust issues. And were it not for the fact that he recognised the hand writing and Phelps' way of writing a report, he would have automatically suspected Sherlock or Mycroft had something to do with this.

Probably still did, knowing the imbecilic pair.

But there it was; everything that he had lost was in reach again. He could exercise to hide the tremor and walk away if it was too bad.

He could do it.

John stared at the letter.

What did he want?

* * *

**New Year's Day 2005**

"We should do that more often," John said earnestly as he stumbled into Sherlock.

"I doubt your liver would survive," Sherlock said, wrapping an arm around him.

"Your liver wouldn't survive," John argued, leaning into him as they walked. "My liver is ace. It has practise."

"It isn't a muscle, John."

John giggled and swayed them both. "There go generations of my family, wailing at the realisation. We have nothing without drink." He waved at the street. "He doesn't mean it," he stage-whispered.

Sherlock managed to steady them somehow. "Lean," he instructed, digging into his pocket for the keys. Obediently, John leaned against the wall, watching him in the streetlight.

"Even with piss poor lighting, you are a very pretty boyfriend."

Sherlock paused in what he was doing. "I assume you're not trying to be insulting."

"Partner," John said, elongating the word. "You're a very pretty partner," John sniggered, "or a pretty Polly. Like pirates." He nodded, pleased with the idea.

Sherlock winced as if pained and shook his head. Amused, John watched him, unable to believe how much he loved this idiot.

"I love you," John pushed away from the wall and draped himself over Sherlock who let out a long sigh. "I do," he said, slightly annoyed by the sigh. "To the moon and back-"

"Oh for God's sake, John. Please get in and shut up."

"-and then times a million," John grinned, pressing his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "I'll prove it."

"Will you?" Sherlock asked, detangling them and pushing them through the door. "How?"

"If I die-"

Sherlock turned to him incredulously.

"No, wait, it's good," John said, flapping a hand at him. "If I die, you can keep my body for as long as it takes you to find someone else."

Sherlock blinked at him. "And that is meant to signify how much you love me?" he asked, sounding vaguely horrified.

"Yeah," John pressed him into the wall. "You can study me and stuff me…" he giggled. "Didn't mean it sexual like. But if it floats your boat."

Sherlock almost smiled in amusement, John could see the lips twitching.

"And- and" John held up a hand. "I'll stay with you as long as you want me to. Because I'll be dead. Can't leave you when I'm dead."

Sherlock inhaled as if to speak and then shook it away. "There is so much wrong with that sentence that it is hard to know where to begin," he sighed, pulling John into the bedroom.

"You complain that I leave to go training," John pointed out. "It would be a way of making it up to you. I might smell though," he added in a slightly worried tone.

"I could pickle you," Sherlock nuzzled at his neck. "I doubt you would smell that different from how you smell now."

"No," John agreed, thinking of the tequila shots Andy had insisted on. "Probably not but we should have sex. Loud sex. To annoy your flatmate." He blinked down as he realised Sherlock had already started to strip him. "Clever," he said, pleased.

"You'll never manage," Sherlock said, pushing and pulling John to the bed to sit him down.

"I could use something," John complained, looking around. "The hairbrush," he declared. "I could use the hairbrush."

"I wouldn't. It's from a murder scene."

"We could role play?"

Sherlock paused in what he was doing and looked up. "John?"

"Yes."

"Do shut up."

"Love you too," John flopped backwards. "To the moon and the stars-"

"I will leave you in this room alone and walk in banging pots and pans tomorrow."

"And forever," John finished meekly.

Sherlock's face softened slightly.

"And ever and ever and ever-"

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered without any bite. "You absolute idiot."

* * *

John turned the papers over in his hands, trying to pick out a good memory from the army.

There were good days of easy camaraderie and friendship, John knew that. He could remember laughing and feeling like he belonged. He could remember the high after a rush in the hospital or a mission that had been successful.

But he couldn't really pick one out. It was a general haze of good times and then crystal clear bad ones.

Really bad ones.

* * *

**9****th**** January 2009**

"Alone?"

"Yeah," John stared at the bar as he drank. "Happy to stay that way."

"I hear you," the man said.

Clearly he hadn't. With an annoyed sigh, John turned to look at him and took in the mercenary clothing and attitude.

He could smell it a mile off.

"I hate this fucking country," the man started to complain.

He was in no mood for it. "Then why be here?" John snapped.

Ten minutes later they were both thrown out for fighting.

* * *

"What were you thinking?" Moran snarled at him. "Honestly, Watson? Was there a shred of thought in your head?"

"No sir," John replied, staring at the desk. "I told him I wanted to be alone and he ignored me."

"Don't be so precious about it," Moran snapped. "You're in the army Watson, you don't get 'me time' or whatever the fuck it's called."

John said nothing.

Moran sat down heavily in the chair and scraped a hand over his eyes. "This is the third incident that's been reported to me. You are this close to a suspension, despite your impressive service."

Stupid really, John thought. To have given up everything for this, only to risk it on these spats.

"You're gay, aren't you Watson."

"No."

"You were fucking a lad back home."

John tightened his jaw. "Bisexual, sir. Not that it's any of your business."

"No," Moran folded his arms. "But you'll get in to a great deal less trouble for fucking than you will for fighting with my allies."

John almost laughed. "What, are you pimping me out?"

Moran met his stare carefully. "You want it or not?"

* * *

That night he met Charlie Taylor for the first time; a mercenary with a small camp outside of the city limit. It wasn't exactly allowed but when a Major was on your side there wasn't much you couldn't do.

The meetings were…just shy of unpleasant. Games and sex that made John's head roll.

But it stopped him thinking.

And, after two months of it, he didn't need it anymore. He found his own willing participants that wanted to burn off some frustration, the same as he did.

Stress relief.

* * *

He wouldn't need stress relief now.

It was almost like breathing in again, like stopping and gathering everything up. John had been at the very worst and had crawled back up and out of that pathetic pit all on his own.

If he went back in, he would be calmer, focussed.

If he went back in he would never see Sherlock again. Never.

He'd expected it to be harder.

In his hands he held the chance for greatness. He could see it in his mind's eye, that as long as the tremor didn't play up he could do it properly. He had the correct attitude now and he'd always had the ability. Combined…

But he'd accepted it was over.

He'd done it. Whatever he needed from the army, whatever he had wanted, he had got it. He'd protected Sherlock, he'd been useful, he could help Andy and talk about his life with accomplishment.

Suddenly, the choice he'd had a year ago seemed so stupidly simple.

What did he want? The army or the chance of having Sherlock again?

Did he want to go back into the army?

No.

"I don't want it," he said out loud, trying the words out.

No wave of horror followed, no fear or worry.

"I don't want it," he repeated, a little stunned by the truth of it.

He wanted this life, this one he was creating. A job, a flat, friends.

Sherlock.

Cases.

It was incredible how much he did want that suddenly.

And he wasn't stupid, there was the chance that Sherlock might honestly realise that there was nothing in John that he wanted.

Whatever happened with that though, whatever decision Sherlock made, John knew one thing.

He wasn't going back in.

He didn't need to any more.

* * *

"Is he in?" John asked Anthea as he walked to the door.

She glanced at him. "Excellent. He's been in a foul mood all morning. I'm sure you'll only improve it."

Whatever.

Storming into Mycroft's office he saw the slight flicker of surprise. "Ah, John. Come to thank me-"

"This is a photocopy. I have a few." John thudded the pile down on the desk. "Test results from today, a retraction from my therapist. Notes from those I've served with and my own written and signed opinion that my tremor is too dangerous to risk out in the field."

Mycroft looked down and almost, almost gaped at it all.

"I don't know which of you it was, you or Sherlock, but here it all is. Proof that I am not walking away from this. And, no matter what you or your brother do, I am not leaving him until he decides there is nothing there for him. You know," John added a little self-deprecating, "on the off chance he doesn't appreciates my company."

Mycroft looked down, hiding the expression on his face as he scanned the papers. "You have effectively ended your military career."

"There are other jobs."

"A little late for that sentiment, don't you think?" Mycroft said, raising his eyes to John.

"No," John said, oddly calm. "I didn't give it up for him. I gave it up because I didn't want it. That was the only way I could ever give it up."

"Mm, and the tremor?" Mycroft asked, sitting back. "I did warn Sherlock that this might not work because you were hardly going to be able to give it your all."

"Part of it," John shrugged. "I'm not using this as proof Mycroft, or a bribe. I'm just telling you; I'm not going back in, I can't go back in now. Don't waste your time with it again."

There was a long sigh. "And how did you explain such an error."

"Bureaucracy and badly filed paper work. I mentioned your name afterwards…seems they don't like you very much. 'Interfering shit' I think was the phrase used. Don't worry, no-one's job's at risk."

"Well, haven't you been busy," Mycroft said silkily.

"I'm not a kid anymore," John said, folding his arms. "Funny thing, between the army and getting shot…you don't seem quite as scary as you used to. I thoroughly recommend it if you feel stuck one day."

Mycroft sneered at him. "Get out of my office."

"Gladly," John said, turning. "Oh and keep that one Mycroft. I delivered the original straight to command so…really, nothing you can do with it."

* * *

"I need a favour."

Alf stared at him. "You lost the cane…" he said blinking. "And you look…better."

Shrugging, John leaned on the bar. "You have any jobs going?"

Alf looked around the place. "I know it gets a bit shit in here on a Friday, but I don't need a doctor-"

"Need a barman?" John asked. "I have locum work but it's unreliable and this is outside of office hours."

"Fuck…yeah," Alf grinned at him. "Yeah. When can you start?"

"Whenever," John offered.

Alf laughed. "Yeah…fuck yeah. It'll be like old times. Me, you, horny customers. Though we've replaced the wide eyed charm with soldier cool."

"You are so ridiculously gay at times," John muttered, shaking his head.

* * *

It was the strangest feeling.

Years ago he would have been horrified; the idea of going back to bar work, to locum GP work, to a flat share in Bethnal Green would have been horrific. Not good enough or not impressive enough.

Stupid.

For years he'd done what he thought he should do, worried about what people had thought of his life's decisions and tried to meet expectations.

It made him happy to know he could do what he wanted, that he could pick his days to work (to some extent) to have a variation. It was a relief to be back in a room that he rented with guys his own age and fighting about the television channel.

It was fun again.

And, oddly, it was fun without Sherlock. There was always a nagging feeling that Sherlock would have made it better, would have added to it all, but John actually felt happy just doing what he wanted to do.

He felt calm, together, at ease with the world.

Happy.

And that was what he could give Sherlock, one way or the other.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: Learned from the best - having made his choice, John settles properly into London life, using a few tips from a certain genius to get said genius to talk to him again.


	24. Learned from the best

Learned from the best

Chapter Summary: Having made his choice, John settles properly into London life, using a few tips from a certain genius to get said genius to talk to him again.

Happy Easter/Happy bank-holiday weekend/Happy day off!

Also, I know that "The Blind Banker" was meant to happen in March but it has been shoved back a few months in this timeline! Also, that's so not the easiest episode to work around (the endless exposition is making me want to scream...you can all remember the basic points, right? I don't have to make that chapter coherant?!) :P

And (last one, I promise) NatS is on it's way (very slowly because I'm sulking with it) but it is getting there.

* * *

**End of February 2010**

"Mrs Hudson still happy with you?"

Sherlock nearly dropped his keys on the floor in shock. That voice…

Stunned, he turned to see John leaning against the shutters of Speedy's, a relaxed smile on his face.

"It's three in the morning," Sherlock hissed at him. "What are you doing?"

"Three oh seven actually," John corrected. "Good case?"

Sherlock turned, half expecting to see something behind him that would confirm he had accidently stumbled into a dream. "Yes," he said, baffled by what was happening.

John nodded, a twinkle in his eyes giving away just how amused he was by the situation. "Do you need a hand getting in?" he asked with concern. "Friends help each other open doors."

What was he doing here?

What was he doing still in London?

"Come to say goodbye have you?" Sherlock demanded, trying to wrap himself in nonchalance. "Does the army beckon?"

"No."

No? What did 'no' mean?

John waited, seemingly with endless patience.

"Did they retract the offer?"

"Yes," John said with an easy nod. "Mainly because I corrected them and wrote a letter explaining the error."

What?

Sherlock opened his mouth but the word did not come out.

What?

John had…had turned down the army?

It didn't quite compute.

"The tremor is minor," Sherlock said, frowning at the door. "You're an idiot."

"I know," John said in such a quiet voice that Sherlock almost looked at him.

Looking down, Sherlock studied his keys, twirling them around his hand. "I could ask Mycroft to make them reconsider-"

"I don't want it."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Eighteen months ago he would have given anything to have heard those words.

Anything.

The thought annoyed him.

"Have you ever considered that you have an issue with wanting the unattainable and then being bored once you have it?"

"Haven't got it yet," John said without missing a beat. "But I doubt it."

"I don't want you in London," Sherlock said quickly, not sure what else to say.

"I know. But that means you still care. We have a deal, remember? Until you feel nothing or until we're friends. Your choice."

"You can't exist on an army pension here," Sherlock said, turning to John, refusing to cower against the door.

"No." John nodded in agreement. "I got a job. Locum work. And I'm the new supervisor at Back Door."

Sherlock smiled bitterly. "I imagine he jumped at the chance of having you back."

John studied him, a pensive look on his face as he stepped forward suddenly and wrapped his hands around the railings framing the steps Sherlock was standing on. "Are you under the impression that Gay Alf's crush was new information?"

What?

"Everyone knew. And if you think I'm that thick then fuck you. Nothing ever happened, nothing was ever gonna happen. He's chasing after the support dancer for some X Factor thing and given that the guy looks like he stepped off a calendar, I don't think he's pining after me."

"You knew?" Sherlock repeated blankly.

"Yes." John gave him a strange look. "You were hardly subtle about it."

"You never said," Sherlock muttered.

"It…it wasn't important," John replied, pulling a face. "Why would I waste time with you talking about something we both knew and something I thought we both knew was irrelevant to our relationship?"

Sherlock snorted. "You and I clearly had very different ideas about relevancy in a relationship. If I had realised you thought other interested parties were as irrelevant as discussions about marriage then we would have both saved ourselves a lot of hassle."

And with that he jammed the key in the lock, walked through the door and slammed it shut.

* * *

**5****th**** March**

"You're doing what?"

"Writing a blog," Andy said, munching on his bacon sandwich as he read the paper which was flat on the table. "We both are."

Sherlock glanced at John who had somehow managed to follow him to the café and then had sat down to sip the second mug of tea that Andy had left on the table.

Andy Harrison was a complete and utter traitor.

"About?" Sherlock snapped, folding his arms.

Andy and John exchanged a look.

"No," Sherlock said, glaring at them both. "No. I refuse-"

"It'll get you clients," John said slowly.

"I have a website," Sherlock snapped.

"I read it," John nodded. "My flatmates read it. Well…the first sentence at least-"

Oh for God's sake, that proved nothing. "That's because they are plebeians."

"You haven't even met them," John argued with a sigh.

And he wouldn't. Even if it would allow him to prove his point. "Why are you fraternising with him?" Sherlock demanded of Andy.

"Because he's right. It will get you more clients," Andy said, sounding uninterested. "And weirdly John can translate Sherlock speak, which the rest of the world still struggles to do. You should pimp yourself out to the Yard," he said musingly to John.

John smiled tightly and stared at the plastic cloth of the café table.

"I have a website," Sherlock snapped, enunciating the words carefully, in case Andy had missed the point.

"I know. It's boring as fuck," Andy replied in the same slow tone. "You're condescending, you jump a mile a minute as if the reader can see into your head, you rarely talk to your readers-"

"I address them," Sherlock argued.

"You talk at them. Huge difference," Andy said and then winced as he read something. "Jesus, she is such a piss poor columnist. There are holes in this a mile wide."

"This doesn't mean you get to talk to me," Sherlock warned John, pointing at him.

"No, it doesn't automatically mean we're friends." John shrugged as he finished his tea. "I'm actually helping you here; look, we're colleagues."

It was mildly better, he supposed.

* * *

**9****th**** March**

It was clearly going to be a frustrating day, Sherlock thought as he opened the door to the world and was met with John waiting at the bottom of the steps.

"Andy is texting you," Sherlock decided. He had to be; John was not the sort of person who waited hopefully all day on the off chance Sherlock was going to leave his flat.

"Maybe I've bugged the place," John said, holding out a coffee to him.

"If Mycroft hasn't managed it then I doubt you have," Sherlock snapped as he eyed the coffee, tempted.

"It's just coffee," John said soothingly. "Sugar, no milk."

"Do you want a medal for remembering a rather typical fact?"

"Do you want to make my presence here seem like such a big deal that you can't take a simple coffee when you want it?"

Refusing to look stupid, Sherlock reached out and plucked the coffee from John's grip.

"Your delivery service is no longer required. Go away," he ordered.

With a strange smile, John nodded and turned away.

The coffee was hot, very hot and perfect.

Mrs Hudson was a complete push-over for John it seemed. It had to be her that had told John he was on his way out, Andy wouldn't have been so accurate.

"If you like," John said suddenly, turning back to him, "I could always hunt you down a pasty."

"I have some self-respect, John."

The pleased grin made Sherlock falter, sure that he had missed something.

"It won't slow you down," John bargained.

A memory lurked, threatened to tug at him, but he had no time for it. "It may not, but you do," Sherlock snapped, striding in the opposite direction.

He didn't look back.

But he did finish the coffee.

* * *

**11****th**** March**

It had been a successful case.

More or less.

The less was mostly defined by the fact that he had been hit on the head with a piece of piping and was currently being mutilated by a paramedic.

It got worse when Andy turned up. Apparently the sudden umbilical cord that had developed between him and John couldn't stretch too far because John trailed behind him.

Sherlock glanced at the needle in the paramedic's hand.

"Whatever that is, use it quickly," Sherlock ordered the paramedic whose hands were rather worryingly unsteady. "Death would be preferable to this conversation."

"Give me that," John muttered at the paramedic as he came over, holding out his hand for the needle. "And don't go for a piss up the next time you're on call."

The paramedic froze in horror and fled.

"You're hardly any better," Sherlock hissed as John stepped forward.

"I'm light years better than that, even when drunk," John corrected, tipping Sherlock's head to the side. "Even Mycroft would concede to that."

"Well, one would hope that you had excelled in your job, given what you gave up for it."

He hadn't intended to say that.

"You cracked your skull pretty well," John sighed. "You'll need supervision-"

"Not you."

John didn't argue as he completed the prep for the stitches.

Sherlock almost flinched when John touched him. But somehow, John kept the touch casual, calm and professional.

"You are good at this," Sherlock murmured as John worked quickly and precisely.

"As you said," John replied tightly. "I should be, given what I lost for it."

"You didn't lose it," Sherlock muttered. The hands around his chin froze and the grip shifted a little.

"Sorry?" John asked, sounding a little hoarse.

"You gave it up. You chose it. You didn't lose it; you were hardly passive in the dissolution of the relationship."

There was an odd disappointed noise. "No. No, I suppose you're right," John said in a small voice.

"I usually am," Sherlock decided, pleased.

"Yeah," John sounded a little flat. "You usually are."

* * *

**16****th**** March**

"Here."

Hearing John's voice at various points in the day was almost becoming habit. Sherlock looked up from the microscope as he sat in one of the teaching rooms at Bart's and frowned at the sandwich.

"Not hungry," he said, looking back at his work.

There was a rustle and then a box of sushi was placed in front of him, the label showing it was from a restaurant he had taken John to a few years ago.

He eyed the packet, tempted.

"Or," John said brightly, "Option number three which is I can buy you a meal."

"You can't," Sherlock glanced up. "For starters, your rent is due this week."

"Well I'm not taking you to anywhere Mycroft would have lunch, so I doubt I'll spend all of it," John said, seemingly unbothered by the mention of money.

That was new. Better even. John had always been too annoyingly awkward about money.

Irritated, Sherlock reached out for the sushi and dragged it towards him, keeping his eye to the lens. After a few minutes, he opened the packet and blinked at a perfect assortment of his favourites.

"You really do remember the strangest-" Sherlock looked up.

John had left.

There was a shiver of something uncomfortable fluttering through him.

_A man, goes to the effort of going to a restaurant fifteen minutes out of his way, ordering a selection, then buying a sandwich to make it seem more appetising, gives it to his friend and leaves._

_Deduction: Knows he isn't wanted._

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

Or even if it was simply John being aware that he was experimenting and had no time for idle conversation.

It was rather annoying, not knowing.

He did so hate being on the back foot.

* * *

**16****th**** March**

Dealing with relationships was not something Sherlock had proved to be very good at; for whatever reason he seemed to miss certain aspects or failed to comprehend the complexity of it all because he had no interest in letting other people's opinions matter to him.

Clearly, they had mattered to John.

Andy had been compromised and seemed to be acting like his own dating agency. His opinion would be useless. Lestrade might have been an option but he seemed to like John since the idiot had shot someone to save Sherlock's life.

Useless policeman.

It was galling therefore, to realise that he had three options; Mrs Hudson (who may or may not be in John's pocket), his brother (who hated John and was, well, Mycroft) and his mother.

"He won't stop talking to me," Sherlock complained.

"He said he wanted to be friends or give you closure," his mother considered. "Do you want that?"

"I don't want to see him," Sherlock snapped, folding his arms.

"Ever?" his mother asked as she cleaned his desk.

It was far easier to have her do it than listen to Mrs Hudson's grouching about not being his housekeeper.

Ever? To never talk to John again?

It sounded like bliss at the moment.

"I remember, before I met your father and I was dating-"

"You date now," Sherlock muttered, disapproving.

"There was a lovely young man, Colin-" his mother broke off. "Well…he wasn't nice. But he thought he was amazing and he annoyed me so much…" She turned to him and smiled. "I told him I wanted nothing to do with him and he chased me for two months."

"My condolences," Sherlock muttered.

"And then one day he stopped. Had enough of it I suppose." His mother watched him carefully. "As much as I protested, it was nice feeling important, having someone chase me."

"I have an interesting life, I have no need to create drama where it isn't needed," Sherlock sulked, sitting down heavily and thumping his feet on the table.

"I know," she said brightly. "But if you didn't care, sweetheart, you'd be indulging in the benefits of having food delivered to you, a doctor on hand and someone giving you free publicity."

"I don't need it," Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

"Oh darling," she patted his hand. "Everyone needs coffee."

He looked up at her. "Was that an attempt at humouring the situation?" he asked suspiciously.

"Clearly not," she sighed and tapped at his feet. "Off the table."

* * *

**17****th**** March**

He absolutely did not need John.

At all.

And he refused to let John win at this game.

"This may well be the worst place you have ever lived in," Sherlock complained.

John eyed him suspiciously. "Might be," he agreed as he drew near. "Has there been a murder?"

"No." Sherlock pushed off the wall he had been carefully leaning against. There had been just enough space between the graffiti to not mess up his clothes.

"Okay," John looked baffled. "Um…why are you here then?"

Finally. It was a joy to see John off balance for once. "Deduce it," Sherlock suggested.

"I'd rather not." John seemed determined to keep his distance.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked in mock concern. "Is it off putting to the routine of your life to have an ex pop up every so often?"

Annoyingly, his words seemed to have the opposite effect to what he intended. "As if you have a routine," John muttered, rolling his eyes as he stepped to the door. "Fancy a cuppa?"

It was infuriating. With a snarl, Sherlock grabbed at John before he opened the door and twisted him, pushing John back against it.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I've told you," John looked a little confused by the sudden turn of events.

"I fail to believe you are doing all this when you couldn't try half as hard when we were-" Sherlock broke off. "Tell me the truth."

John studied him, a hurt expression dawning on his face before he closed his eyes and looked away. "I just want to be annoying, to wreck your life and piss you off," he said, his voice completely flat.

No, that wasn't it either. Shoving at him, Sherlock snarled. "The truth, John."

"I want you to be happy," John snapped, staring over his shoulders as his cheeks flushed with what Sherlock suspected might be humiliation. "But…I seem to be doing the opposite."

"I was happy, until you came back-"

John nodded and looked down, his shoulders sinking in Sherlock's hands.

Lost, Sherlock shoved a little again. "I don't need you to be happy."

John closed his eyes. "Well…at least you've realised that," he said sounding miserable.

"What?" Sherlock questioned.

"Closure," John swallowed. "There you are."

No.

Sherlock let go of John, more baffled than anything else. His own reaction was…confusing.

"I'd swear you look disappointed," John murmured. "I…Maybe…I do want to be in your life, Sherlock. I want…" he shrugged. "I want you in my life."

It was insanely tempting.

And insane.

Slowly, Sherlock shook his head. "I don't," he said woodenly.

"Okay," John nodded. "So…I mean we might bump into each other through Andy-"

"To be expected," Sherlock acknowledged.

"And that won't bother you?"

It was oddly comforting.

Stupid.

"No," Sherlock replied.

"Okay." John looked down at his keys, fiddling with them aimlessly. "So…see you around, I guess," he said, then opened the door and vanished into the house.

That was even worse than goodbye.

He stood, staring after John and even raised his hand to the door before he backed away, frustrated with himself.

What did he want?

After floundering for a full six minutes, he turned away, still unsure.

What was wrong with him?

* * *

Next Chapter: All fun and Games - When John and those partying at Back Door get hauled in over a dead body, Sherlock decides to use the opportunity to do some investigating of his own.


	25. All fun and games

All fun and games

Chapter Summary: When John and those partying at Back Door get hauled in over a dead body, Sherlock decides to use the opportunity to do some investigating of his own.

Author's Note: Can I just say thank you so much for the lovely discussions in the reviews box! It's amazing to see and, without trying to convert people, the process of having those discussions is much easier on a03 because you can comment more than once on a chapter and can see my comments as well as direct discussions under your own comment. If anyone is the kind of person that enjoys that chance of discussion on any fic then have a look for a03 if you haven't already looked :)

* * *

"You coming tonight?"

"Have you not heard a word I just said?" Sherlock complained. "This is potentially an interesting murder."

There was a long pause from Andy. "It's my birthday," he said in a falsely quivering voice.

"I'm sure you'll cope," Sherlock said, peering down the victim's throat. "Last year you told me to piss off so you could have a threesome."

The DI in front of him winced and shook his head. "Get off the phone," she ordered.

Sherlock raised his eyes to DI Lambert and her overly neat hair. "When you learn how to solve crimes, you may issue me orders. Until then, kindly cease talking."

"Is that Lambert?" Andy asked.

"Yes."

"Would she like to come to-"

"No." Sherlock hung up on him, rolling his eyes.

"That was rude," Lambert commented with a glare.

"Andy Harrison was propositioning you for the night. Did you wish me to pass the full message on?"

Her lack of immediate response told him that she would have at least thought about it.

He hated it when Andy dated his police officers. The man really seemed to have a thing for women in uniforms. Or ones that still had the uniform at the back of their wardrobe.

It was beyond irritating.

* * *

"Remind me why we agreed to this?"

John stood, rubbing at his neck from where he'd been piling in the bottles of Corona into the fridge. "He's our friend?"

"So need a better reason than that. I had a date with Jacob tonight. Third date. You know what that means?"

"Third time having sex?" John asked, tapping the fridge door shut with his foot as he looked around the quiet club.

"Which is when it gets good," Alf said earnestly.

Smiling tightly at that, John sighed. "So we feeding this through the tills?"

"I ain't paying tax," Alf hissed at him. "I own the place. Just let him have it."

"Stock take is gonna be a bitch," John whined, leaning on the bar.

"That's why I have my favourite supervisor to do those," Alf said, patting John on the cheek as he turned to fiddle with the balloons.

Git.

* * *

"A toast," Andy announced, standing up and swaying a little and flapping a hand at the DJ to turn the music down.

In what was probably a deeply lazy move, John had sat himself on the bar and was simply leaning back to pour beer or down to get to the bottles in the fridge. Laughing at his swaying friend, John folded his arms and exchanged an amused look with Eve who was in the DJ booth looking pained at Andy's attempts to not slur too much.

"To my friends. And the gay bastard who let me drink for free. Knew there was a reason I liked you," Andy said, toasting at Alf.

Alf looked over at John. "Toss me something to bash his head in."

"Thank you for coming and celebrating. Twenty eight is very, very important. I just wish you'd all found me someone to shag."

"Prossie's stuck in traffic," Paul told him with an arm around Alina.

"See, you're joking. That would have been an amazing present," Andy complained, walking over to wrap his arm around Alina too. "I demand a threesome as an apology. With your misses and Kirsty."

Kirsty darted behind Mike. "Call a prostitute for him, now," she demanded of her husband.

"See, that's the spirit," Andy nodded at her, pleased. "John. Beer."

Leaning back a little, John winced when his hand failed to find a bottle. With a sad sigh, he shimmied off the bar and dropped down to look into the fridge.

Empty.

Damn.

"Oi," Mike suddenly called out. "Molly just texted to ask if she was still okay to come."

John grinned and poked his head up to look at Andy's reaction. His mate had frozen mid waltz.

"Shit," Andy hissed. "Shit, she can't see me like this. I look like a moron."

"I think she knows that already," Dave, a mate of Andy's from the paper called to him.

At least this was better than New Year's, John thought as he gave up and went down to the stock room. Smaller, with more people that he liked and in an environment he was comfortable with. Plus, there was the added bonus that he had something to do if he felt like darting away from the party.

Anything really to ignore what had happened with Sherlock.

John still had no idea why he felt so …disappointed or surprised by it. Sherlock could dig his heels in and outlive God just to have the last word in an argument.

But he had hoped-

No, it had been obvious, even to John, that Sherlock was becoming more and more irate with his presence. The man had seemed lost and frustrated when John had been around and it had been a battle to work out if he were doing the right thing…

Had he pushed too hard or not enough?

Annoyed at himself and the aimlessness of his thoughts, John walked past the stock room and headed down into the cool room underneath the club. It was the closest thing to fresh air he could get and at least turning the barrels could get out some frustration.

He was so pissed off he completely missed the dead body hanging from the metal pipe for three seconds.

Then stared for another eight.

It wasn't as if he hadn't seen a dead body before, he'd seen many in a worse state than the one in front of him. But there'd been…a lack of interest in the dead then; a faceless target or an accidental aim…something that was more en-mass than a personal hit.

This…

The man hung from the pipe by handcuffs, his head dipped down to the ground leaving John to look at a long expanse of nape. He was naked and the toes of his feet just brushed the cement floor.

John sat down on a barrel, staring.

There was semen on the body.

For a moment he could see something else, a faded memory from almost a year ago that made his head spin.

Extreme sex gone wrong? A kinky evening?

"John?" Andy shouted down. "I thought you were getting the Coronas?"

He wasn't really sure what to say and, in the time where he debated with himself, Andy came and found him.

"Why are you-" Andy broke off, his eyes widening in horror. "Holy fuck!"

"Should call the police," John decided, standing. "You okay?" he asked.

Andy shook his head, still staring. "Do you know him?" Andy asked, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the body.

"No…" John hesitated, looking at the body again. "Dunno. Can't see his face."

Andy turned his back suddenly. "I'm gonna be sick," he muttered and staggered off to the staff toilets.

* * *

The case had turned out to be an extremely dull one.

Disappointing really, he thought as he watched the step-father be dragged away.

"Lestrade wants you," Lambert said, watching the murderer get manhandled into the police car.

Good.

* * *

When he got in the car, Lestrade turned off the engine.

"I thought we were going to a crime scene-" Sherlock started to complain.

"We are. Mainly because you won't not go once you hear-"

Sherlock cocked his head, a few scenarios racing through his mind.

"You keep everything by the book," Lestrade warned him. "For their protection, as well as yours."

"The party," Sherlock breathed, his mind racing. "What's happened?"

"Dead body in the cool room," Lestrade answered. "Pretty recent. Chances are someone at the party did it."

Well…this would be different.

* * *

"Think I got a suspect," Anderson said when they turned up.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, peering at the club.

"Got a guy who seems bored with the whole thing, like we're annoying him. A right psycho-"

Angling to the side slightly, Sherlock glanced down the room at John who sat on a chair and was looking rather unfazed by the whole situation.

He almost smiled.

"He's an army doctor, you idiot. This is hardly shocking to him," Sherlock muttered, sweeping past and glancing at the familiar faces.

"The body?" Sherlock asked.

"This way."

* * *

Obvious.

But how often did he get to see these people like this, to interview and question them.

"I need more data," Sherlock said, relaxing. "Am I allowed to interview them? According to your dull and unimaginative rules?"

"That won't be weird?" Lestrade asked, looking rather surprised.

Weird? It would be brilliant!

* * *

**Paul**

"This is really weird," Paul muttered as he sat opposite Sherlock and glanced at Lestrade nervously. "I've never been interviewed by the police before."

That was because his life was shockingly dull. "You arrived here at seven?" Lestrade asked after running through the necessary procedure when recording a witness statement.

Paul nodded.

"You are being recorded. It doesn't take down stage directions," Sherlock complained.

"Oh, yes. Arrived at seven," Paul said, stressing the time a little, as if the recorder were a deaf old woman.

"With your fiancée?" Lestrade prompted.

"Yes. And Andy. We gave him a lift."

"Did you go anywhere other than the main room?"

Paul shook his head and then winced. "Uh…no. Apart from the toilet."

"Which ones?" Lestrade asked.

"Uh…there's only one set…" Paul screwed up his nose. "By the stairs."

Moron didn't know about the staff toilets then. He should, they were always cleaner.

"Who was at the club when you arrived?" asked Lestrade as he leaned back in his chair.

"Mike, Kirsty. John and Alf, obviously. A mate of Andy's called Kelly had turned up early and was having a chat with John." Paul shifted. "About the war not…he wasn't hitting on her. She'd been out in Afghanistan and they were swapping stories."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, as if waiting for him to claim that was irrelevant.

"How did they seem?" Sherlock asked.

Paul looked panicked. "What John and Kelly?"

"The people who were there," Lestrade corrected, casting an odd look at Sherlock. "Anything unusual?"

Paul shook his head. "No…not really…Alf was asking about Mike's daughter, which is a bit weird but I think he was making small talk."

Dull.

* * *

**Alina**

Sherlock had previously had very little chance to talk to the woman Paul was to marry. Privately, he thought her far too…nice. Though maybe that made them fit together well.

They would be insipidly dull in their happy little lives; their only problem would be Paul's insecurity that she was far more attractive than he was.

Which was true.

"What are your impressions of Alf?" Sherlock asked.

"Alf?" Alina shook her head. "I only met him tonight."

"Long enough to make an impression."

Lestrade kept quiet, but his glances at Sherlock were becoming more and more suspicious.

"He…he seems okay," she sighed. "Not…a little too over the top but he seems like a lovely guy."

This was going to be like getting blood from a stone.

"And John Watson?"

Her smile was fonder this time. "He's a sweetie. Quiet and getting used to things again. Secretive maybe-"

"Why do you say secretive?" Lestrade asked with a sigh.

"Oh…" she sighed. "He has an ex that no-one likes to talk about. I think it was a bad break up and he doesn't talk about it often."

Lestrade stilled and Sherlock resisted the urge to kick at him. "Really?" he said, leaning forward. "Anything else that's secretive about him?"

"Oh Christ," Lestrade said quietly behind him.

"No," Alina looked panicked. "Not tonight…I mean…like he and Paul's brother had a fight years ago and Paul won't tell me why he and Adam don't get on. John didn't break that trust."

Why ever not?

"I just meant that he keeps things close to his chest. Paul said that his ex wants nothing to do with him and John's been quiet all week, poor thing. He really was trying to make amends-"

"Right," Lestrade cut across suddenly. "That's helpful. Really helpful. Out you go."

Sherlock stared at the wall as Lestrade escorted Alina out.

"Adam attempted to sexually assault John while he was drunk," Sherlock said to the wall.

There was a pause in the conversation behind him. Turning, Sherlock met Alina's shocked eyes.

"He spiked John's coffee. I tested it. Your future husband won't leave you alone with his brother because he's scared of what he might do. The only reason he doesn't tell people is because he knows it would devastate their mother."

Alina's mouth was open, her eyes large and shocked. "It's you isn't it?" she whispered. "You're the ex?"

Sherlock inclined his head and turned back to the wall.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Lestrade asked as he sat back down next to Sherlock.

"Investigating."

"You've solved it, haven't you?" Lestrade asked with a sigh. "This is…what is this?"

"I'm gathering data," Sherlock replied frankly.

Surprisingly, Lestrade looked down at his watch and nodded.

"You're allowing it?" Sherlock asked, slightly suprised.

Lestrade shrugged. "Better than what's on TV at this time."

* * *

**Mike**

"Is this allowed?" Mike asked, glancing at Sherlock as he sat down.

"I'm asking you questions," Sherlock replied innocently. "No more, no less."

With a doubtful glare, Mike nodded.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade.

"It's your show," was the reply he received.

Fair enough. "At the moment our suspect is John Watson."

He was very lucky that Mike missed the way Lestrade rolled his eyes and hadn't even bothered to record this one. As it was, Mike did a rather excellent impression of a gold fish.

"You're not serious?" Mike said with sheer incredulity in his voice.

"Deeply," Sherlock replied.

Mike let out a strangled noise. "You're just pissed off because of the way things ended. He shouldn't be involved in this investigation."

Lestrade just plastered a bored look on his face.

The man was a half decent actor. Who knew?

"John Watson is the best man I have ever known," Mike said passionately. "You want to know how good? This idiot here offered to give up everything to go with John to Afghanistan-"

Oh. No. This should not be-

"-and John was so fucking terrified that he might die or be injured that he said no."

What?

"And then swallowed all the blame, all the guilt because he'd wanted to spare Sherlock being left alone or burdened."

"_I'll be out on patrols and missions, I might barely be in…and you want to give up your career, London, everyt__hing, for that?"_

Had that been what John had meant?

"There is no way John could do it," Mike added, still looking infuriated as he stood up. "You want to interview me, fine, but I'll be calling a lawyer."

And, when neither Lestrade nor Sherlock said a word, he stormed out.

"You offered…" Lestrade turned to him, stunned. "You offered to go with John?"

"He'll talk to Kirsty," Sherlock muttered, ignoring him. "Get Alf in, before Mike talks to him too."

"Sherlock-"

"I need to…" Sherlock swallowed. "Just get him in."

* * *

Alone, Sherlock stared at the wall.

John hadn't wanted him to be alone?

Ironic.

But…worryingly possible.

Terrifyingly possible.

Hadn't John understood that Sherlock had understood those risks? That he had been very aware that John might be hurt, had known the percentages, the likelihood of risk.

Hadn't John understood that Sherlock simply hadn't cared? If John had been that pig-headed to want to risk his life, then what else could Sherlock do?

Though, oddly, the thought didn't sit as well with him nearly a year and a half later as it had then.

But it had been John. What else would he have done, if John had been injured and they had been together, but look after him?

* * *

**Alf**

Lestrade left them to it as he closed the door behind himself. He'd almost seemed disappointed when Sherlock had given him the name of the man he was to arrest for murder.

And address, Sherlock was particularly proud that he could add the address!

"What is this?" Alf asked, frowning as he settled into the chair.

"Your boyfriend killed Darnel White and left pathetic clues to place the blame on you."

Alf's eyes widened a little. "No…but-"

How terribly predictable. "I don't have time for your denial. Why did John end things with me?"

Alf blinked, looking baffled by the sudden change in conversation. "I…what?"

"John. The only people he spoke to after we broke up were you and Mike. What did he say?"

"Ask Mike," Alf sulked, folding his arms like a pathetic four year old.

"I did," Sherlock smirked. "I need you to confirm what he told me."

"Why does this matter?" Alf snapped. "You made him jump through all your fucking stupid hoops and then fucked him over. You ain't doing it again."

"John had led me to believe that he was unwilling to commit, that the army was more important. He didn't want to give up anything and settle down to a boring life as…"

He couldn't say the words.

_My hus…_

He couldn't even think them.

Shock danced in Alf's deep brown eyes. "Oh," he said, looking uncomfortable.

Why had he never asked this before?

Too hurt? Too emotional about it? Perhaps this 'closure' idea had a purpose.

Alf ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "Why are you asking?" Alf asked, looking up slowly.

"Why aren't you telling? I have a right to know why my relationship ended."

Alf made no comment at that.

Infuriated, Sherlock leaned closer. "I need to know," he snarled.

"Which reason?" Alf said with a defeated sigh, slumping back in his chair. "John had so many I don't think he knew whether he was coming or going."

"Pick one," Sherlock suggested.

Alf wavered. "Don't you dare use this as a way to hurt him-"

"Alf-"

"John gave us a load of reasons. Mike and I…we're agreed that John probably…" Alf sighed. "You saw him when he came back. Listless, depressed. You know what John is like, he needs to feel useful."

"Get to the point-" Sherlock said, waving him on.

"To make it work he always knew he would have to give up the army. But…he would have come home, been a doctor, been your husband. Kept a house-"

"And? People do it all the time." It was hardly akin to torture, no matter what some at the Yard might think.

"And that would have been hard. Mike said PTSD makes the adjustment hard…soldiers struggle with that anyway. And then to compare that to you, to what you are and what you do? John hero worshiped you. I've only ever heard him say it in passing and rarely at that but…" Alf smiled sadly. "Sherlock, John was and is shit scared of boring you."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," Sherlock snapped. "Why lie? Mike's explanation almost makes sense, but this-"

"What did Mike say?" Alf asked looking defensive.

"That John didn't want me to give up everything when he was risking his life."

"Oh…" Alf nodded. "Yeah, that too."

"There is one reason-" Sherlock started to say, frustrated by the ever evolving tale.

"Oh you are so fucking thick," Alf let out a gasped laugh. "You want a list? Okay. John's never seen a marriage that works. John didn't know who he was outside of the two of you. John didn't know what he was capable of because you never let him out of your sight. John thought he had made you miserable with the long distance and John never quite thought he was good enough for you. John didn't want to come home and play housewife because he knows it's a role you despise. John didn't want you to sacrifice everything when he couldn't. John didn't want you to be stuck as a nursemaid or as a widower. Pick which one you like best, because every single one of those is true," Alf yelled.

It was so utterly ridiculous-

"_Don't you dare talk to me about which one of us was bored."_

John. A month ago.

"_One of us has to give, one of us has to…I don't know…be the side kick."_

John . Over a year ago.

No.

That couldn't possibly have been a reason.

Surely John knew…

Suddenly the odd looks and strange smiles twisted into sense.

How had he missed it?

He'd focused so much on the fact that they had ended that he'd barely thought about the why and what had been said.

"No," he said, sitting back, feeling utterly numb. Because it put everything, everything in a different light.

Everything.

Running away to the army, John had even said it. But Sherlock had never asked why; he'd just assumed it had been a reaction to the drugs.

But he'd complained to Mycroft years ago about the same question that suddenly haunted him now.

Why the army? Why not simply a placement at a hospital miles away?

Mycroft had never given him an answer.

Had that been because he didn't know either?

Running away to…to what, ensure John matched him, that John felt like Sherlock's equal?

He felt sick.

It would have been a catch 22; to come back and be boring, to be ignored or to continue and be hated for being away.

"I couldn't have missed that," Sherlock mumbled. "I couldn't."

"You were high," Alf said tightly. "You were high when he decided to do it, high when you found out and high after you broke up. You're not that clever when you're high."

"He never told me," Sherlock breathed, his mind trying to sort out all the sudden hints he'd ignored.

Alf met his eyes. "No. But I'm not entirely sure he didn't think you already knew."

* * *

When he got back to Baker Street, Sherlock didn't go upstairs.

Instead he made his way into Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

It had been an age since he had last ventured into it. The last time he had been in the room had been with John…

Slowly, he turned the door knob and stepped inside.

In the dark of night the room was very still; the kind of still that seemed as if it was waiting for something. Even worse, the room was still set up the way it had been last time.

_Laughing into John's mouth as they fucked on the table. Delighted, Sherlock reached his arms around John's neck and pulled him down and as close as possible._

_Something crashed off the table._

"_That would be the other mug," John groaned, looking over. The move changed the angle of his thrusts and Sherlock groaned appreciatively._

_John glanced down and tried the angle again. Loving the feeling, Sherlock tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, savoring the sensation._

"_Where did you say you wanted the windows?" the builder asked from beyond the plastic covering the doorway._

"_This is fucking insane," John hissed down at him._

"_I know," Sherlock breathed. "How moronic do you have to be to not see where the windows need to go."_

"_Yeah," John muttered, biting his lip as he gasped. "That's what's mad about this."_

For the first time, the memory almost made him smile. Reaching out, he touched the table and smiled properly when the leg they'd weakened squeaked.

Then he sat.

"_I don't want us to be checks and balances."_

And that had been what they had become. John had been angry about the drugs, Sherlock infuriated by the army.

Would they have managed to stop had they continued on?

Tracing a pattern onto the table, Sherlock considered the last few months of their relationship. Honestly considered and let himself see what he had ignored.

Frustration at having to choose between John and cases.

Continuous judgement about whether he was going to go back to the drugs and feeling guilty for having done them.

Hurt that John had picked the army over him, embarrassment at the lengths he was going to in order to keep John.

The nagging confusion over whether the people he talked to only did so because he had been John's.

But it had been good, it had been so good when John had been back and they had been together-

It had been fake.

Not completely, but they had seen each other so rarely that it was like living in a separate world. As long as the outside world was kept away and ignored, they had been fine.

What would have happened if they had stepped back out into the real world of living together, of seeing each other every day? All those nagging feelings, all those terrible doubts?

Sherlock closed his eyes, not really wanting to admit it.

"_God, I love you," John murmured, nuzzling at Sherlock's throat, his body a comforting weight._

"_Good," Sherlock replied, stroking a hand down his back. "So you should."_

_John lifted his head and gave him an odd, sad smile. "Yeah," he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek as he moved back and off._

They had loved each other.

But Sherlock had been a sentimental idiot, blindly believing that love should have been enough.

In the hospital, when he had seen John, he had noted how much the man had changed; how he had been the potential fulfilled.

Had John seen the same in Sherlock?

Would they have managed that together?

Sherlock tilted the chair back on to two legs and stared up at the ceiling, thinking.

* * *

Next Chapter: Choice - To hold on or to let go?


	26. Choice

Choice

Chapter Summary: To hold on or to let go?

Author's Note: Thank you to those wh have reviewed :)

* * *

For three weeks he stayed away from John. Three long weeks.

Life was satisfying; he had the cases, he had excitement, he had people to discuss important issues with such as the width of a stab wound, the motives of a murderer.

_I don't need you to be happy._

The case of Darnel White went to court and Sherlock allowed himself to deduce John as he stood as a witness and give calm, clear descriptions.

The soldier stance was as much a part of John now as his mother's appalling parenting and the family propensity towards alcohol. John didn't hold himself utterly straight so he wasn't consciously doing it but he looked alert, in control and aware.

With the slightly warmer weather John had been working more shifts at Back Door and his hands, when placed in front of him, bore the general weathering of someone who worked behind a bar.

To listen to John, to hear the polite manner and thoughtful answers, one would never think that he had shot a man to save Sherlock's life. One would never suspect that he had put a gun to his mouth night after night a few months ago. You would be forgiven for doubting that John could march into the office of Mycroft Holmes and stand his ground.

John had always had hidden depth but now…

He wasn't dating anyone, that much was obvious and as much as Sherlock hated it, a relief.

What had happened to the man who had been called 'Three Continents'?

Sherlock leaned down and placed his chin on his hands as he studied John.

The reasons for the dissolution of their relationship, when Sherlock had churned them all over in his head, had made a surprising amount of sense. Certainly, John's subsequent actions had been understandable, considering it all.

But there was a boiling part of Sherlock that was still furious.

Why hadn't John told him? Any of it? Why hadn't he pointed out the dilemma? Had he thought Sherlock wouldn't understand? Too emotionally inept to talk and come to a compromise?

That stung.

John had made the decision about their relationship without giving Sherlock a chance to understand or to express his own views on the situation.

John hadn't trusted him.

And that hurt more than anything else.

* * *

The first time he allowed himself to talk to John was for a case.

"Do you know this man?"

John looked up from the pint he was pulling, blinked and let go of the pump. "Why are you-"

"Case."

"Ah," John looked down and started pulling the pint again. "Yeah, Louis Foster. New to London from Birmingham."

"Where is he staying?"

John fixed Sherlock with a sharp look and handed over the beer to the customer who was staring at them. "Anything else?" John asked the frail looking man.

"I…can you do that? Just get someone's photo and ask for you to arrange a date?" the man asked, looking suddenly hopeful.

Good lord.

"You should vet your customers before they walk in," Sherlock hissed in annoyance. "Go away," he added, shooing the man.

"Four twenty-five," John cut across Sherlock with a glare.

The idiot hastily fumbled a five pound note into John's hand. "Keep the change," he cheeped before almost running off.

John watched him go, and then braced his hands on the bar. "Despite what you may think, Sherlock, I am not shagging around. I don't know where customers live; it doesn't come tattooed on their forehead."

This was new.

This was fascinating, seeing John not caring about how he sounded. Not seeking approval.

"You do call taxis though, when people have drunk too much or talk to them?" Sherlock asked, putting the picture down. "I wasn't asking for the postcode."

John shrugged. "He came in seven or eight times when it was quiet. He's just divorced, got a kid and just started to admit that he might be gay. He's dipping his feet in. He doesn't get plastered and he doesn't flirt by giving out personal information." John yanked a tea-towel down and grabbed some glasses out of the washer. "Is he alive?"

"For the moment. He's in hospital." Sherlock hesitated. "He was almost burned alive."

John paled. "That's…burns are fuckers to recover from."

"You've seen some?"

"Yeah, a few. Patched up a few too."

If John were anyone else, Sherlock would have asked him to view the burns.

Why not?

"When do you finish?"

* * *

In the office downstairs, Sherlock showed John the pictures of the burns.

"Petrol," John said immediately.

"I concur," Sherlock said, sitting down opposite him. "Was he moving when it was poured on him?"

John threw him a baffled look then leaned forward over the pictures again. "No clue. But…" he focussed on the picture of the hands as Sherlock restrained the urge to sigh in disappointment.

How could he miss the fact that there were more burns on the feet from staying in the puddle of petrol?

"He was holding onto something," John decided, frowning at the picture. "I've seen that before…someone had a picture of their family in their hands and…they said all they could think about was to not let go as they ducked and rolled."

Sherlock grabbed the picture and spun it around to study. "Nothing was found," he murmured.

"If he fell unconscious from the burns then his hands would have gone slack," John shrugged. "If there was something in his hand-"

If. What other explanation could it be?

If there was something in his hand…or on his hand.

Sherlock yanked out a magnifying glass and bent over the picture.

He needed the real thing.

"You've been remarkably useful," Sherlock muttered as he stood, still studying the picture.

John snorted. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he asked, turning to peer at him.

"Fuck off."

* * *

John had been angry.

Why?

Sherlock shook the question away.

He could focus on it when he'd finished the case.

* * *

As it turned out, Louis Forrester was brilliant.

He'd written the licence plate of his attacker's car onto his palm.

It was a shame that he succumbed to his injuries a day later. The world could have used more like him.

And, even more brilliantly than that, John had helped. John had put him on the right track…

Just like with the cabbie case. John had said something and it had sparked an idea off.

And that was fantastic.

He just didn't know what to do with it.

* * *

"Found the killer."

"Good for you," John muttered slamming the till closed as he took the money out to cash up. "We're closed."

With that, he stormed off and into the back.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the bar then went after him.

"He's dead," he called as he followed John down the stairs.

"The killer?" John asked, casting an infuriated look over his shoulder.

"Louis Forrester."

John paused for a second. "Do you know when the funeral is?"

"No." How would he know?

"Your show of humanity is touching, as always," John snapped, striding into the office.

"You're still angry," Sherlock murmured, walking in and ignoring John's poor attempt at slamming the door behind him. "Why?"

John almost tossed the till onto the table and then turned back to Sherlock. "Why?" he asked sounding incensed. "Why? What shall I start with first? How about the fact that you told me you wanted nothing more to do with me and now have decided to use me as your personal ruddy burn specialist?"

"You were there," Sherlock sighed. "It saved me going on the tube. You know I despise it."

"I tried to talk to you for months," John added, looking almost murderous as he punctuated his points with jabs of his hand at Sherlock's face. "And you didn't want to. You good as told me I was wasting my time and now, when I am trying to get over you, you come here and start asking me things-"

"I'm asking for your opinion, not dinner," Sherlock snapped, folding his arms. "Don't be so juvenile."

"Okay," John nodded. "So what now then? Am I another toy to help your deductions? Have I just about made it to the status of Google in your books?"

"Don't be ridiculous and that is not what has annoyed you-"

"No?" John mocked. "Go on then, tell me what has?"

He didn't know.

"Oh," John almost snarled. "I know, why don't you go get Alf to tell you?"

"Ah," Sherlock smirked as he leaned against the wall. "Are you annoyed that he told me what I had a right to know-"

"You had no right," John yelled.

"I had every right-"

"To interrogate my friend and then walk away?"

The hurt in John's voice was astounding.

And utterly infuriating.

"Do not talk to me about walking away, you did it without explanation-" Sherlock started, pushing himself off the wall.

"I gave you one-"

"You gave me nothing," Sherlock approached John furiously. "You gave me no good reason-"

"And funnily enough it's taken you over a year and a half to give a shit about why I broke up with you-"

"Don't even think to use that-"

"You love puzzles," John laughed bitterly, refusing to back down even as Sherlock got closer and closer. "You once followed a man for a week straight just to work out what had happened. You were annoyed that we had failed-"

"We didn't fail," Sherlock breathed. "You, you failed. You failed to trust me, you failed to remember we were in a relationship and we were meant to share those problems."

"You never wanted to talk about them-"

"I didn't see them," Sherlock slammed his hand down on the desk to the side of them, causing the till to thump and money to spill out.

"You see everything," John argued, not even flinching at Sherlock's display of temper.

"There," Sherlock hissed, jabbing a finger at John. "There, that is the source of all our problems. You think I cannot make a mistake, that I might miss something. There is always something that I miss. I am not a machine-"

"Could have fucking fooled me recently," John snapped at him, getting closer. "Did I mean so fucking little to you that you can just walk away that easily?"

"You did it," Sherlock shoved at him slightly. "You left me after I proposed."

He hadn't meant to still sound so hurt by it.

John flinched as if he'd been slapped. "Because I couldn't watch," he argued passionately. "Because I had to leave. You seem fine with coming and going, it's like I'm the bloody furniture for all the care you give it."

"What would you like me to do? Get on the floor and cry?" Sherlock asked, crowding John. "That didn't seem to work last time-"

"You are such a sarcastic wanker," John hissed, tilting his chin stubbornly. "I have tried being your friend, I have tried leaving you alone and both times you act as if I've done you some wrong. You and your fucking brother," he added with a sneer of frustration. "What the hell do you want me to do? Leave?" he asked so violently that Sherlock could feel the force of John's breath on his jaw.

"No," Sherlock bit out

"Then what?" John demanded.

Sherlock shoved him back against the wall and kissed him.

There was a hitched gasp of shock and he had no idea which of them did it. But it was hard and brutal and frustrated.

And it was John. John who fought back with teeth and tongue, who demanded as much as Sherlock, John who grabbed at his shoulders with a grip that would leave bruises, the same way that Sherlock clenched his hand in John's hair to keep him in place.

John.

John who ripped away from it, pushed and pulled until there was air and coherency again.

Sherlock stared at the wall as John shoved his way past and stood in the middle of the office breathing heavily.

God, he wanted…

It was terrifying how much he wanted to follow John.

"I don't know," he said slowly.

"You don't know what?" John asked quietly behind him.

"What I want," Sherlock said as he slowly turned to John.

"Mm," John nodded, looking temptingly debauched. "Right," he nodded again and looked down. "Yeah, heat of the moment and all that."

Sherlock nodded slowly.

Then, hating himself, shook his head.

No.

"Sherlock?"

"I hate you," he admitted, leaning against the desk heavily. "I hate you for not giving me a chance to fix it."

And he did.

He wanted to hate John so much for it. He didn't want to understand or feel himself waver. John had made the choice.

"It wasn't that," John said hoarsely. "It was never that I didn't trust you or didn't want it fixed, it's just…" he looked down with a heavy sigh. "If we talked about it…it might have ended."

"It did end."

"We talked about it," John said wryly.

Sherlock almost laughed.

"It's the hardest thing in the world," John said slowly. "To have told you, to have explained…it shattered you. It was always going to. To do it…to tell you…" he sighed. "My only wish is that I had told you without…before you proposed."

"Yes, that would have been preferable," Sherlock agreed.

John flashed a weak smile at him. "I know I hurt you," he said slowly as he folded his arms. "And I get that…I get that you don't want me around. I just…it's hard, you coming here like this. It…" he pressed his lips together tightly. "I suppose it makes me hope."

"Hope?" Sherlock asked, watching him closely.

"That we can get past this, that we can I don't know…be friends one day," John shrugged and swallowed hard.

"Friends?" Sherlock looked up. He shook his head and watched John's shoulders slump. "We never managed to be friends, John. We were never just friends," he said with a bitter laugh. "Look at what just happened."

"Yeah," John nodded. "I suppose…I just don't want to not have you in my life."

"I know," Sherlock agreed, grateful for the desk behind him.

"Okay…" John deliberately unfolded his arms and his back straightened. "So, we come to a decision together?"

Sherlock tilted his head questioningly.

"About what we should do," John added, looking as if he were wading into a battle. "We still want to see each other, we have a lot of history and a lot of hurt and you don't trust me. What do we do?"

Indeed.

"I'm actually asking you," John said when the silence drifted on. "What shall we do?"

Bristling slightly, Sherlock folded his arms. "I…what answer are you expecting?"

"I'm not asking you to solve it," John muttered. "I'm…I didn't give you a say last time so…here it is. Any thoughts?"

"Any thoughts?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

John sighed and stared down at the floor. "Is this your way of saying 'I don't know'? To jump on everything I'm saying?"

"I don't want you."

The words sounded wrong, harsh and Sherlock wanted so desperately for them to be true, even as John closed his eyes and looked away.

"I don't…not a relationship. But…" Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, "not having you in my life is unappealing."

"But you don't think we can be friends?" John asked quietly.

If Sherlock said no…

It was logical; he didn't want to not have John in his life and he didn't want a relationship again. If he said they couldn't be friends what would be left?

"I do not want a relationship," Sherlock stated again. "If…we might…defining it makes no difference," Sherlock decided. "We will simply meet, talk and socialise. That is it."

John opened his eyes slowly. "Sherlock…" He sighed and seemed to study Sherlock carefully. "I don't…I want you to be happy, not trapped by this."

"I am not trapped," Sherlock spat, disgusted by the idea. "I…there is simply no point in not doing what I want to do. You are less dull than most, you can be useful to my work and you have a strange way of looking at things that sparks ideas off."

John's eyes softened slightly.

"But I want no more than that. And this…" he gestured, "What happened…I do not want it happening again."

There was an imperceptible nod from John. "Yeah…I didn't mean to…" he shook his head. "I'll keep three paces away at all times," he offered, trying to grin.

No.

"That would be an idea," Sherlock said with a nod.

The hopeful, half smile that was shot at him made Sherlock suddenly uncomfortable.

This? Was this really all that John had hoped for?

He didn't know whether that made him soften towards John even more or feel thoroughly put out.

* * *

Next Chapter: I don't - Sherlock is tracking some robbers in the area who have an interest in hotels, bars and clubs.


	27. Worth it

Worth it

Chapter Summary: Sherlock is tracking some robbers in the area who have an interest in hotels, bars and clubs

Warnings for violence, though nothing that hasn't happened before in this fic!

* * *

"Uh…" Andy frowned at Sherlock, baffled. "What the hell are you and John doing?"

It was a very good question.

"Having dinner," Sherlock replied, clicking his chop sticks together pointedly. "You have eyes, do attempt to use them."

Andy frowned and slid his gaze to John.

They'd ordered a Chinese while looking over the bullet wounds a victim had sustained during a robbery. John had been describing the difference in ranges of distance to the size of the wound and Sherlock had listened, fascinated.

It hadn't quite got them any closer to working out what it was they were doing with each other.

"Are you together?"

John darted a panicked gaze to Sherlock.

Definitions like that were not going to help the situation.

"We are eating together, yes."

Andy sat in the spare chair, slightly away from the desk where Sherlock and John were eating. "You two are fucking weird," he complained after a moment as he rubbed his head.

"Did you want something?" John asked as he swallowed his mouthful of beef with black bean sauce.

"Oh, Fabio's alone on the bar."

"Fuck sakes," John muttered and stood quickly. "Don't let Andy nick my food," he added to Sherlock as he dashed out.

"Incompetent?" Sherlock guessed.

"Shit stirrer," Andy corrected. "But yeah, pretty useless. And also currently fucking Alf," Andy shook his head. "Pain in the arse."

"Ah," Sherlock looked down at the photograph again. The man had been shot as part of a robbery upon a restaurant ten days ago, the latest in a series of break-ins. "You worked as a waiter once, correct?" he asked Andy, churning a few ideas over in his head.

"I was fired," Andy grinned. "Apparently they frown on you eating the things you're meant to be serving, who knew?"

"Mm," Sherlock said, only half listening. "How was the security for the safe?"

"I was technically fired for theft," Andy said after a moment. "You think they let me near the safe?"

"I assumed you might have struck up a conversation with someone. That is what you are good at? Talking?"

"Yeah, so what are you doing with John?"

Ah. Apparently Andy was bored of the conversation then. "Eating and getting his opinion about a case."

"Mm, third time in two weeks," Andy pointed out. "Are you getting back together?"

"No. He's in the bar."

Andy clicked his tongue. "Haven't talked about it yet then?"

Sherlock tossed the chop sticks on the plate, annoyed. "We have talked, at length. I do not want a relationship with him."

"So you're friends?"

It was hard to keep his mind from immediately going back to that frustrated, furious kiss a few weeks earlier.

The brief one.

"Possibly."

Andy groaned and planted his face on the desk. "Nothing is ever simple with you, is it?" he demanded.

"Boring."

* * *

It seemed the thieves weren't just tackling restaurants and hotels but bars too.

Bars.

John.

* * *

"Keep one of the bar staff to cash up," Sherlock ordered down the phone.

"Okay," John said sounding barely interested.

"You've sent them home, haven't you?"

"Yup," John replied, almost cheerful. "Alf's upstairs, it's fine."

"Alf is currently shagging the Italian idiot."

"Then I'll send the robbers upstairs to them," John muttered. "With any luck they might shoot some sense into Alf. Did you have to tell him his boyfriend wanted him set up for murder? He's a right cock at the moment."

Sherlock stopped in the street, tempted to kick something and frustrated beyond belief at John's cavalier attitude.

"They are in your area," he said, trying to get the risk of the situation through to the idiot. "You are not indestructible."

"No," John agreed. "I've been shot, Sherlock, I'm well aware of that fact."

Then why was he being so blasé?

"Fine," Sherlock decided, turning and striding to an alley. "I'll sit with you."

"For God's sake Sherlock, I'll be done by the time you get here, just go home."

There was some logic in that, Sherlock acknowledged, though his pace didn't falter. The idea of John, sitting in the bar alone, cashing up…

How could one resist?

"Get Alf to come downstairs," Sherlock suggested, turning again.

"I'd rather be shot again than watch that shit bounce around the bed with Alf," John hissed.

"That's hardly the correct attitude, John."

* * *

When Sherlock made his way down to the office, John was glaring at the money as if it had just insulted him.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded. "You were meant to be almost finished, hurry up!"

"We're down one hundred pounds," John said evenly still staring at the tills. "Exactly one hundred pounds."

"Of course you are, the Italian playtoy is stealing from you."

John lifted his gaze. "You didn't think to mention that?"

"It seemed obvious."

John looked back down and sighed heavily before scrubbing a hand over his face. "I am getting so sick of this," he muttered. "Ever since that court case, Alf's been a nightmare. He'll run the business into the ground soon."

"He-"

They both jumped at the sound of glass smashing above them.

"That's the optics," Sherlock murmured, staring up at the ceiling. Probably starting with the vodka, he thought watching the ceiling tiles. The thieves couldn't take the open bottles with them to sell and wouldn't risk drinking on a job.

They were professionals, after all.

"You are fucking kidding me," John muttered, staring up as well. "The burglars?"

Sherlock nodded as the rest of the optics were smashed above them. "It would appear so."

John stood suddenly, his chair making a frustrating amount of noise. "The flat door isn't locked," he breathed, panicked.

Where was he going? Surely he wasn't that stupid-

"Neither is the staff door," Sherlock reminded him as John walked into the hall.

"Yeah, but we know," John muttered, walking to the stairs. "Alf-"

Oh, spare him the moronic nature of heroism.

Sherlock launched for him, grabbing John and pulling him backwards while shoving a hand over his mouth. "We have phones," he hissed in John's ear, trying to ignore how warm John felt. "You do not need to walk into the bar to warn Alf."

John wriggled, fighting to free himself and kicked out as if in pure frustration. Sherlock moved, trying to angle them-

John's foot caught a stack of crisp boxes and sent them flying. It wasn't the loudest noise ever made, but it was loud enough to make the door above them yank open.

Sherlock barely had enough time to haul them both back and down before the gun was fired at them.

The noise was obscenely loud and he almost jumped from the sound in such a small space. John flinched next to him?

Not good for an ex-soldier.

"Run," he hissed at John, tugging at his hand, trying to ensure John didn't freeze. But, amazingly, John actually followed as another bullet was fired at them.

Where-

"Cool room," John hissed at him.

It was better than the other options he supposed.

They went down the next stair case and Sherlock flicked the light on as they tumbled in, and then turned to close the door.

It was heavy.

Why-

He didn't have time to examine it and instead slammed the door shut, sliding the bolts across-

The key was on the other side.

"John-" Sherlock called behind him, frustrated by the lack of option. "What-"

The sudden sound of a gun made Sherlock jump, but the door held, surprisingly. There was a long pause and then the sound of the key turning, locking them in.

And the light went off.

"Switch is in the hall," John explained from behind him.

"Clearly," Sherlock muttered, getting down on his knees to peer through the tiny gap at the bottom. "Is there another light source?"

"Lamp," John said, his voice tight. "In the corner to your left."

Sherlock felt around, patting until he found the damned thing and switched it on. The light was weak and slightly tinted red, casting an odd glow upon the room.

"I hate this fucking room," John breathed and Sherlock turned to him, surprised to see John sitting on one of the barrels, a pained look on his face. "Nothing good ever happens in here."

Sherlock blinked at him and then took in the way John was pressing his hand against his stomach-

No.

God, no.

"You've been shot," he breathed in horror, darting forward and then stopping stupidly, completely at a loss of what to do next.

John lifted his sticky hand and winced. "Just a tiny bit."

Just a tiny bit? How did someone get shot just a tiny bit?

"Are you…" Sherlock couldn't think. "Will you-"

John's brow furrowed. "It's a graze," he said with all the casual dismissal of someone used to such wounds. "It just stings." He leaned back and sighed. "On the bright side, plenty of alcohol to help us along."

Helplessly, Sherlock turned back to the door, floundering inwardly, but determined not to fuss if John wasn't. "The safe isn't in here, is it?" he asked John as he studied the door, trying to get himself under control.

"No. Used to be, back when I worked here the first time. That was a pain," John added, shaking his head.

He was being strangely calm.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and frowned at the lack of signal. "Your phone?" he asked, walking over to John who was pressing on the wound again.

"Coat pocket," John said, frowned down at his side. "In the bar."

He'd be cold soon, Sherlock though, glancing at John's chest and then down to the growing stain at his side. Shot and cold…that wasn't a good mix, was it?

It was…unsettling seeing John in pain. Cold. Hurt.

Shot.

The thought made him slightly ill.

Sherlock pulled off his coat and met John's annoyed gaze.

"I'm not some damsel in distress, you don't need to strip off," John huffed, eying the coat warily. "You'll be cold."

It was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to point out that he hadn't been the one shot, but one look at John's face warned him it wouldn't go down well.

Another option?

A half formed idea lurked in his mind and he glanced over at the corner by the lamp, not at all sure it would be a sensible idea.

But then, it wasn't as if he had many options as his disposal. Extraordinary circumstances called for unusual resolutions.

"Let me see?" Sherlock ordered, reaching for John's elbow.

Something uncertain warred in John's eyes. "It won't look good," he warned Sherlock frankly.

Stupid man. Sherlock tugged John's hand down and lifted the ruined t-shirt.

It was wrong that he glanced at the faded tan on John's still rather firm stomach before he looked at the graze.

Wrong and stupid.

Swallowing, he refocused. John was correct; he'd been grazed by the bullet but the wound was bleeding and at its deepest, perhaps the width of the bullet. It was odd, seeing a wound on a living person, feeling warmth and seeing breath move the skin and muscles.

Oddly reassuring though, Sherlock thought as he managed to keep his thumb from sweeping the healthy skin underneath the graze.

Only just though.

Annoyed with himself he backed away and watched John put his palm back onto the wound to stem the bleeding.

"What do we need to do?" Sherlock asked, standing back to look down at John and put a little more distance between them.

"Pressure," John said with a grim smile, pushing pointedly, even as a faint shiver danced across his shoulders.

Cold. Sherlock clenched his fingers into fists. John was too cold.

The earlier idea seemed to be more and more like the only logical solution, even as it seemed more and more like the stupid solution.

There were a few tea-towels in the cold room and Sherlock spread them on the floor in the corner by the lamp. Then he stood on the barrel to study the fan that cooled the room.

"Controls are outside," John said softly. "You-"

Sherlock reached down and picked up the wrench used for the gas. Without hesitation he jabbed it into the fan.

There was no way John could cope with that continued cold if they were in here for a while.

John didn't say anything as Sherlock stepped back down but made an annoyed noise when Sherlock stripped off his coat.

"Come here," Sherlock said, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, trying to shut the traitorous sentiment off as he arranged himself.

This was about logical reasoning to stop John from getting worse. Nothing more and nothing less.

"What are you doing?" John asked, frowning.

"You need to be kept warm," Sherlock announced haughtily. "This is our best solution."

John looked at him, then down at his side as if thinking. Slowly, he stood and walked over, awkwardly going down to his knees in front of Sherlock.

Shifting a bit, Sherlock spread out his legs and watched as John's eyebrows soared.

"I'm not dying," John muttered, looking deeply uncomfortable. "And, even if I was, a goodbye shag would not be happening."

Moron.

Rolling his eyes at how dense John could be, Sherlock sat up and forcibly turned John around so his back was to Sherlock, trying to be careful of John's wound. Then he pulled John back, close to him and leaned them both back against the wall so John was sat in between Sherlock's legs, back to Sherlock's chest.

Satisfied, Sherlock draped the coat over John, covering them both as he slid his hands down to John's side and added his own pressure.

Strange, having John in his arms; being able to smell him, touch him, hear him breathe and feel the vibrations as John shifted in thought. After so long of not having it, the feeling was-

To be ignored, he thought ruthlessly. Any and all feelings about the matter were to be ignored.

That would be far safer.

John hissed and turned his head under Sherlock's chin. "Warn me next time," he muttered.

"Tell me when you're shot then," Sherlock replied, adjusting a little so that his chin rested on John's hair.

"I did," John argued, though without any heat. "This time anyway," he added with what sounded like a smile.

"Yes. Far preferable to watching a news report, it must be said."

John stiffened ever so slightly. "That's…that's how you found out?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, trying not to think of how much he had felt that day.

"I'm sorry," John mumbled. "I never knew…I just figured Andy told you in passing."

"We were at the Yard when we saw it," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes at how sticky his hand was already.

"God," John shuddered and then hissed from the movement. "Harry got a call in the middle of a fight with Clara. I thought that was bad enough."

Sherlock tightened his grip and closed his eyes.

Stupidly, John seemed to take his silence for something else. "Not that…I mean we weren't together so…I'm not saying it was a big deal-"

"I flew out to see you."

There.

The secret he had guarded so closely, the embarrassing proof of his continued sentiment, was out.

"What?" John asked, shifting as if to try and get a look at Sherlock's face. Tightening his grip, Sherlock prevented the movement.

"You'll pull the wound," he muttered disapprovingly at the doctor.

"You…you flew out?" John asked, sounding stunned.

"You were asleep and alive."

John sunk back against him, clearly absorbing the information.

"I can't believe you flew out," he whispered. "I thought…I half thought you'd track down whoever it was and buy them a pint."

"You think that little of me?" Sherlock asked, pressing down a little on the wound that still wasn't magically healing under his hand.

"I think I hurt you that much," John said quietly.

To his own surprise, Sherlock felt himself nod ever so slightly and bury his head in John's shoulder. The smell of him had changed, just a little but…it smelled…

Comforting. Delicious.

Like something he still wanted.

And slowly Sherlock shook his head against John's shoulder, wrapping an arm around John's front to keep him close in this strange sudden pocket world they seemed to be in.

"I'd have killed them," Sherlock breathed. "Even without being what we were…I still would have done it."

John let out an odd laugh, "I suppose I can't really lecture you about that now."

"No," Sherlock agreed, almost smiling before a dull thump above them echoed through the room. Glaring up, he shook his head. "And they should be counting themselves lucky this is a graze and we're locked in."

"Despite what you think," John muttered, "You are still not able to will away a bullet, Sherlock."

They sat quietly for an age before John's breathing started to hitch as if he were trying to work out how to say something.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his hand almost numb from holding it to John's side for so long.

"It wasn't…it wasn't that I didn't love you," John said sounding awkward. "I…never think that."

"Love isn't enough," Sherlock sighed against John's shoulder. "If I learned anything from what happened, it was that."

John let out a long sigh against Sherlock's hair. "I hate that's what you took from our relationship," John said slowly, his voice suddenly thick.

Unsure, Sherlock lifted his head and rested his chin on John's shoulder.

What was he meant to say to that?

"What did you take from it?" he asked softly.

John was quiet for so long that Sherlock didn't expect him to answer. "I…" John suddenly let out a bitter laugh. "What you said all along. A relationship is meant to be a partnership."

Sherlock tilted his head back against the wall. If John weren't injured or they weren't currently locked in a room with armed burglars on the other side, he would have yelled or paced or walked away.

"How ridiculously obvious," Sherlock hissed after a moment. "From the very beginning, partners versus boyfriends. Any idiot should have understood it wasn't just a joke."

John just nodded.

Concerned, Sherlock lifted his free arm to John's wrist to check his pulse.

Slow.

"John?"

"I'm fine," the idiot muttered, shivering a little.

"Don't you dare think about passing out," Sherlock hissed at him.

There was a weak smile as John turned his head to him. "Worth it," he murmured, voice hazed. "It's worth a wound to know you still care," he added, head lolling slightly.

Sherlock had no idea how to process the information. "You are a colossal moron," he settled for saying. "I will not talk to you for a week if you do."

But John had already done it, his head falling forward and his body slumping against Sherlock's.

No.

It was just the pain and the temperature, Sherlock knew that. There wasn't enough blood loss for John to be in true danger yet.

Sherlock pressed the side of his face against John's hair, breathing him in again.

"I don't-"

_I don't love you._

_Say it._

_I don't love you._

But he couldn't say the words.

Couldn't quite bring himself to lie like that.

_Love isn't enough._

God almighty he couldn't go through it all again. Couldn't have this fail, couldn't risk John leaving a second time.

"I can't do it," he whispered to John. "I don't want to."

There was no response. But, as he rested his head against John's he frowned at something rubbing against his collarbone from just under John's t-shirt.

Part of him already knew what it was before he followed his finger around the chain and down to the bullet.

"Didn't work," he muttered to John as he stared at the chain he had given John years ago. "Either time."

But, unbidden, another joke between them lurked in the back of his mind. The muttered complaint John had made every time Sherlock had used it to pull John over to him.

_Not a sodding leash Sherlock. I swear you gave this to me just to be able to pull me to you._

And, in the dark and quiet room, Sherlock turned the bullet over in his fingers.

Thinking.

* * *

A rather pale looking Alf, surrounded by rather pleased looking officers let them out the next day. Apparently he and Fabio had done the same as John and Sherlock and locked themselves up in the attic and called the police.

It was annoying; Sherlock could have done with a good case and interesting criminals to chase down.

* * *

"Look," John said with a grin as he held up his t-shirt to show off the bandage. "I'll have two bullet wounds to show off now!"

Mike peered at it. "Who the hell wrapped that?" he asked, turning his nose up.

Sherlock almost smiled at the glare John shot down at Mike's head. "I did."

"Oh," Mike straightened. "That explains it."

John looked like he'd been mortally insulted.

"What's that meant to mean?" he asked as Mike turned to continue into his office.

"Well…it wasn't exactly the best medical education," Mike sighed.

"I wrapped bullet wounds on my first day, what kind of education did you get?" John demanded. The indignation in his voice made Sherlock smile down at the table.

"I work in London-"

Within seconds the pair had vanished down the corridor, squabbling about the correct way to bandage a stomach wound.

"You love him."

Surprised, Sherlock turned to Molly who watched him with a sad smile.

"We are no longer together," Sherlock muttered.

"Love isn't that logical," Molly said in a soft voice.

"Then it is not something I wish to have any part of," Sherlock snapped, looking down the lens without really seeing the sample before him.

"It doesn't work like that."

Sherlock clenched his hands on the table, trying not to think of the bullet chain he had held in his hand for hours on end.

It damn well would.

* * *

Next up: The Blind Bastards! And we are back to Sunday updates every week as I am about to start my new job on Monday :D


	28. The Blind Bastards Part 1

The Blind Bastards

Part 1

* * *

It wasn't that John wasn't grateful. A few months ago he would never have believed that he would be talking to Sherlock again, let alone be given a key to wander into Sherlock's flat.

What John was less grateful about was the fact that every five weeks Sherlock seemed to decide it was fine to shove his tongue down John's throat for a frantic thirty seconds.

Or twice since they had started talking.

The first time had been…frustration. Maybe that was the best word for it. They'd been in the heat of the moment, arguing furiously and the next thing John had known he was being shoved against the wall and clung to like he had a share in the world's supply of unsolvable cases.

That had been…sort of expected.

The last time had not been.

"You…" John frowned down at the blade under Sherlock's seat. "Were you attacked?"

Sherlock peeked at him from the book he'd been reading calmly. "No."

John looked down pointedly and watched, amused, as Sherlock glared up at him. "I had a meeting," Sherlock corrected, kicking the blade back a little. "I believe I made my point clear."

"So you're not taking the case?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock lifted the book again then almost immediately dropped it. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"No reason," John said, walking into the kitchen and sighing at the blade mark in the table. "A meeting?" he asked, glancing back at Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was studying him, just shrugged.

"What?" John asked, trying not to sound too defensive.

Trying not to look like he'd been hoping for a case to take his mind off the fact that he was going to struggle to make rent.

Actually, that wasn't quite true; he was simply trying not to think about the awkward conversation he would have to have with Alf who seemed to be covering all his shifts in a stupid attempt to apologise for the past few months.

"Did you get the biscuits?"

The man lived on bloody biscuits.

"No."

Sherlock let out a long sigh. "Still adjusting to the chip and pin machine are we?"

"I…" John glared at him. "Get your own biscuits next time," he muttered, sinking into the chair opposite Sherlock.

"If you keep running away from them-"

"I am not running-" John broke himself off. "They are loud, they patronise you and if you argue back you look like a nutter."

Sherlock stared at him as if John were an idiot. "Sixty year olds can use them, John."

Tipping his head back, John groaned. "Then get one of them to do your shopping. Or better yet, get your mother to do it."

"She's in Paris." Sherlock's voice communicated all kinds of disgust with the idea.

"You could do it," John suggested.

Sherlock just smirked at him and stood. "You could tell Alf that you need more shifts," he said as he passed by John.

"I could," John nodded, staring ahead. "How about you go shopping and I'll talk to Alf," he challenged, standing and following Sherlock into the kitchen.

"I had hoped you had gotten over your issue with lack of funds," Sherlock sighed, disappearing into his bedroom.

"I'd hoped you'd got over your lack of tact," John called down to him. "Guess we're both out of luck."

Sherlock reappeared with his laptop and shot John an amused look. "The difference is I have minions to do the things I don't want to do."

"Minions," John frowned. "How sweet you're being today."

"I have never claimed to be sweet," Sherlock complained, putting the laptop on the table.

"No," John agreed. "Especially not to your minions-"

It came out of absolutely nowhere.

One moment John was edging around the table and the next his back was to the fridge door, Sherlock in front of him.

The kiss wasn't as vicious or angry this time, but it was frantic, as if Sherlock were determined to suck up all of John's breath as quickly as possible.

Just as John processed what had happened, Sherlock pulled away and walked off, picking up the laptop as if that were an everyday occurrence.

It was as if John were a puppet whose strings had just been cut. He sagged and stared blankly at Sherlock's retreating back.

What the hell?

John sat meekly in a chair, head in his hands as he tried to process what had just happened.

What…just…what?

"John?" Sherlock called. "I'm going to the bank."

"Okay," John replied absently.

There was a long pause, then a sigh.

"You could…you could assist."

John looked up, staring blankly at Sherlock.

"It's a paid case," Sherlock added.

John nodded and stood.

It was going to be one of those days apparently.

* * *

"This is John Watson," Sherlock said to Sebastian. "My…"

Oh…John almost sighed. This was never good; they could barely define their relationship to their friends, though after the kiss earlier, John was curious to see what-

"…Minion."

John stared at the ceiling. "Colleague," he corrected with a glare.

Sebastian Wilkes, an old friend of Sherlock's that John had never met, glanced between them and seemed to nod to himself before turning back to his rather large office.

Sherlock glanced at him as they moved to the chairs.

"Colleague?" he questioned under his breath.

"You really want to go down that road after what happened an hour ago?" John snapped at him.

It was a measure of how much Sherlock knew it had been out of line that the man simply nodded and said nothing more on the subject.

* * *

People paid for the strangest things.

Twenty thousand just to find out who broke into a bank to spray paint an old oil painting?

What was even worse was Sherlock walking away from the cheque.

"He's joking," John assured him, turning back to Sebastian. "I'll take that, shall I?"

Sherlock threw him an amused look as John followed him into the lift.

"You can have forty percent if you deal with Seb from now on," Sherlock muttered as he leaned back against the rails of the lift.

"Twenty five," John said, shaking his head.

"Forty-five if you end up in mortal danger," Sherlock bargained.

It was impossible not to laugh. "But not if I save your life again?"

"Fifty if you save my life."

John weighed it up. "I could get one hundred percent if you die after solving the case," he pointed out.

"I wouldn't recommend it. Mycroft gets ever so petulant when credit doesn't go to a member of the Holmes family."

That sounded more like incentive.

* * *

Eddie Van Coon was dead. The man who had been threatened at the bank had committed suicide in his room.

"Suicide?" Sherlock asked, baffled by John's statement as the forensics team photographed the room and the body.

John looked at him, turned and stared towards the entrance where Sherlock had let him in earlier.

It had definitely been locked.

"Of course it was a suicide. You know these city boys, suicide rate is sky high," John said with a shrug as he leaned out of the way, eying one of the forensics team suspiciously and feeling as if he were inches away from being herded out by the team. "You wouldn't believe the amount of people that come into the clinic to be put on anti-depressants."

"Stupid job," Sherlock muttered, peering at the body on the bed. "I have no idea why you do that instead of the bar work."

Oh to be able to throttle the man, just once or twice.

"He'd been away," Sherlock added, turning away and kneeling to the suitcase just inside the built in wardrobe. "Three days, judging by the laundry. Look – something was packed tightly inside his case-"

"I'll take your word for that," John said with a sharp nod.

Sherlock glanced back at him and then rolled his eyes. "It's dirty laundry, John. Not blood and guts."

That would be far more preferable as far as John was concerned.

With a strange look at him Sherlock squeezed past, closer than he needed to be and John glared up at the ceiling. "Those symbols at the back – that graffiti, why was it put there?" Sherlock asked, bending back to the body.

John knew that voice; it was a recent addition to Sherlock's repertoire.

It was the closest Sherlock Holmes got to explaining his thought process for the average idiot.

"Some sort of code," John said, remembering what Sherlock had said at the bank about them being intended for a specific person.

"Obviously," Sherlock huffed at him, glancing back up. "But why were they painted? Why not use email?" he asked, inspecting Van Coon's clothes.

"Well…maybe he wasn't answering," John said watching Sherlock's actions.

"Oh good, you follow," Sherlock said as he inspected the inner pockets of the suit jacket without a hint of shame.

"No," John said frankly.

Apparently the answer wasn't terribly obvious because Sherlock's tone remained almost prompting rather than obnoxiously irritating. "What kind of message would people try and avoid?" he asked, studying the finger nails now.

Honestly, the man darted between everything so quickly it was a wonder he saw anything at all.

It made John rethink all the times Sherlock had given him a very long stare; exactly how much did Sherlock see with a twenty second perusal?

"What about earlier?" Sherlock added, sparing John another glance. "Your little problem-"

John glared down at him. "You kissed me, it wasn't my behaviour that was the problem."

"No," Sherlock's head whipped up. "I was talking about the lack of funds, your rent problem, not…" he ducked his gaze. "That."

"Will we be talking about 'that'?" John asked snidely.

"There's been a murder, John. Do try to keep your romantic dramas out of it."

The man was unbelievable at times. John clicked his jaw and glared at the wall, sure that if he said something he might end up accidently killing Sherlock.

"So…" John began tightly, trying to keep the anger from pouring out. "You think he was worried about money? Like I said, city boys tend to gamble hard-"

Sherlock nodded, "It would appear the collectors were coming," he said as he pried open the dead man's mouth.

What the hell was that?

Curious John bent close as Sherlock managed to extract something from the throat and peered at it.

"Still think it's a suicide?" Sherlock asked, turning his head slightly to meet John's gaze.

"Don't be smug," John chided softly.

There was an arrogant smirk thrown his way that made John's heart skip a little. Trying not to smile in return, John shot him a reproachful, scolding look.

"I can be smug," Sherlock breathed. "I'm correct."

He was brilliant.

Someone was coming closer, issuing orders over the phone and the moment vanished as Sherlock straightened, his pale eyes already latching onto the newcomer.

"Ah Sergeant, we haven't met," Sherlock started to say as he popped what looked like a soggy ball of paper into the evidence bag.

"Yeah, I know who you are."

John almost winced at the aggressive tone of voice.

It was going to be a red rag to a bull, he thought, turning to see that the Sergeant had put his hands on his hips, as if to claim land.

"And," the Sergeant added looking at the evidence bag Sherlock held as he walked over, "I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any evidence."

Sherlock held it out without a fight. Suspiciously. "I phoned Lestrade," he said in a cool voice. "Is he on his way-"

"He's busy, I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant. It's Detective Inspector. Dimmock," the man announced as he took the bag and turned away.

John watched, amused, as Sherlock turned to shoot John a disbelieving look. "Him?" Sherlock complained to John. "He's barely out of uniform."

"As opposed to you who graduated from uniform, how many years ago was it?" John asked, tilting his head.

"He's posturing like a peacock. Or Mycroft when he's trying to impress Anthea," Sherlock muttered as if it were the most foul crime one could commit.

"Be nice," John suggested quietly, stepping to stand next to him. "He's in charge-"

"Please," Sherlock snorted dismissively and strode after Dimmock to correct him.

Loudly and with great arrogance.

How Sherlock had the gall to accuse anyone else of posturing, John would never know.

* * *

Sherlock seemed to take great pleasure in pulling Sebastian Wilkes out of a lunch meeting for a discussion.

Somehow, they ended up in the bathroom as Sebastian told them a little more about Van Coon.

It wasn't quite what held John's attention though. Instead, Sherlock seemed to blink, as if only half paying attention to what Sebastian was saying as he looked about himself and then at John.

Which left John to ask the questions about the Hong Kong accounts and Van Coon's amazing ability to regain any lost money.

"Huh," John muttered as Sebastian walked away, his interest faded after the text came through about the police ruling Van Coon's death as a suicide. "I thought all bankers were meant to be heartless bastards."

But Sherlock was staring at the sink.

"Sherlock?"

"You don't recognise him, do you?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head suddenly.

"Sebastian?" John asked, glancing at the door the man in question had just left through. "Should I?"

Sherlock studied him.

Remembering his earlier thoughts about the length of time Sherlock spent looking at him, John squirmed. "No," he said, pushing away from the counter. "I don't recognise him. You've never introduced us."

The oddest smile appeared on Sherlock's face, but he said nothing.

* * *

Sebastian Wilkes.

Seb Wilkes?

Old university friend of Sherlock's?

John was pretty sure he hadn't been mentioned before.

He sat on the sofa in his living room; his housemates either asleep or at work at this time of night.

Sherlock hadn't even finished university and John was pretty sure that he'd lost touch with most of the people he'd known before they'd ever met.

Unless it had been really early on…

It hit like a blinding flash.

That disgustingly filthy bathroom that had stunk of vomit, a much younger Sherlock glaring down at another guy in his mid-twenties. A guy that had stolen Sherlock's cocaine.

In the bathroom.

John let out a disbelieving gasp.

There was no possible way that had been Sebastian Wilkes…

* * *

"That's rather appalling," Sherlock sighed as John walked in to the flat the next morning. "I did hope you would work it out far quicker than that."

"You lived with him?" John asked in disbelief.

"Needs must," Sherlock said with a shrug as he lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling. "As you may recall, I wasn't that committed to my flatmates."

"He…he was high," John muttered, sinking into the chair.

Sherlock turned his head and gave John a pointed look.

"He still does it?" John yelped.

"I believe so. Certainly the fact that he asked if I had any going spare was a large clue. City boys, John. They have their ways of coping."

"Should have had his fucking crisps," John muttered, trying to process.

Sherlock laughed. "Ah yes, the days where you followed strangers home for food."

"I did not-"

"And the vague promise of sex."

"I turned you down," John yelped.

The playful expression fell off of Sherlock's face instantly. "Funny how things rarely change," he said, suddenly getting off the sofa.

John stared at the window, at the curtain fluttering in the slight breeze and didn't feel his temper fade.

If anything it grew.

"What are we doing?" he asked, standing and following Sherlock into the kitchen.

"We agreed to simply stay with what we were comfortable doing-"

"You kissing me was not part of it," John snapped.

"Force of habit," Sherlock replied easily. "Won't happen again."

"Habit," John growled at him. "Habit?! What the hell do you mean, habit?"

"You do not need to use the word that many times, John. It is not beyond your comprehension-"

"I'm habit?"

"Oh God," Sherlock complained turning back finally. "Yes. When you are around I am used to displaying certain behaviours. It is simply a matter of correcting those and adapting to a new set. It won't take long."

What the hell was he meant to say to that? Baffled, John opened his mouth and found nothing came out.

No words, whatsoever.

He just gaped.

"You-"

Sherlock's phone went off.

"Andy," Sherlock sighed at the screen. "I did wonder if he knew him."

Knew who?

John actually didn't care.

"We haven't finished this conversation-"

Sherlock just flapped a hand at him and answered the phone.

* * *

Apparently, for the time being, they had.

Andy's friend, a journalist who specialised in Hong Kong affairs, had been found dead in his flat. All the doors were locked and he'd been shot.

And Andy was being beyond bull headed about the situation.

"I'm not taking demands from the pair of you," Dimmock growled at them defensively, his eyes darting between Sherlock's smug face and Andy's angry one.

"Brian Lukis was found dead in the same way. He contacted me last night, scared," Andy was complaining. "So you stop trying to be clever and let him at it," he said with a violent jab of his thumb at Sherlock.

"I am not your pet," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

John drew up a chair and sat down heavily in it.

"You want the case or not?" Andy demanded.

"You don't get to decide who 'gets' cases," Dimmock said with a glare. "I'm in charge-"

The look Sherlock and Andy shot him was embarrassing. Groaning, John rubbed his face with his hands, trying to count to ten.

"I'll throw the pair of you out if I have to," Dimmock added, clearly on the verge of losing his temper.

"You have to admit there is a similarity," John said, feeling for the man as he raised his head. Bad enough having a recent promotion without two cocky shits coming over to piss all over it. "If you check it out you either have a new angle or can dismiss the idea-"

"It's the correct idea," Sherlock muttered, folding his arms.

John, somehow, managed not to respond to the arrogant tone that set his teeth on edge as Sherlock proceeded to add to Dimmock's humiliation with his deductions of how correct he'd been and how slow Dimmock had been to accept that.

"Well I was right," Sherlock muttered as Dimmock walked away to get the keys for Lukis' flat. "If he'd accepted my word as gospel from the start-"

John shot him a filthy look. "No-one is stupid enough to do that, Sherlock."

There was a flicker of hurt in the cool grey eyes as John turned to Andy. "I'll see you outside, I need some fresh air after that," he added with a glare.

"John-" Sherlock began, looking a little unsure.

"Give me five minutes."

* * *

The car journey proved to be an interesting one.

"What is going on with you two?" Andy asked as they sat in the back. Sherlock had claimed the front without a word to John.

"Nothing," John replied tightly, well aware that both Sherlock and Dimmock could hear every part of the conversation.

"You're acting weirder than usual," Andy added slumping back. "Of all the cases you two choose to have a domestic, you pick the one I actually care about-"

"You're together?" Dimmock asked, flashing a horrified look in the mirror at John.

"No," Sherlock said tightly, staring resolutely ahead.

"Depends what time of the day," John said, glaring at the curly mop of hair. "For instance, at half past ten yesterday morning, apparently it was fine to commence tonsil tennis. At twenty to eleven, it wasn't."

"You didn't try at twenty to eleven, you didn't try at all," Sherlock snapped.

"Because I'm not a complete dick."

Sherlock's fingers drummed against the door. "Must we discuss this now?"

John looked out the window again, but even he could tell that Andy wasn't finished.

"Wait…you…you…he…" Andy shifted forward.

"It's habit," John offered blandly. "A set of behaviour that will be corrected soon. Because Sherlock sees nothing wrong with that explanation."

"So you were together?" Dimmock asked, glancing between the road and Sherlock.

"Inconsequential," Sherlock muttered.

"Well," Andy shuffled forward to lean on Sherlock's head rest. "Not really, not if you're still shoving your tongue down John's thro-"

"We are not having this conversation," Sherlock exploded. "We are not fifteen. It is not applicable to the case. Drop it."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence for the rest of the journey.

* * *

"I can't believe you brought that up," Sherlock muttered as they walked up the stairs, dropping behind Dimmock and Andy.

"Humiliating was it?" John asked, uninterested in the answer. "Did it make you uncomfortable?"

Sherlock flashed him a baffled look.

"I don't care," John said, turning to him on the steps and pausing them both, "if you give as good as you get to some complete arsehole or someone that deals with you often but the poor guy's just been promoted and you stood and humiliated him. Even worse, you did it in front of officers he'd just been promoted above-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped to the side.

So John blocked him again. "Are you listening to me? I know you're not sweetness and light but take him into a separate room or send one of your obnoxious texts next time. That was out of order-"

Sherlock side stepped again and John darted to block him once more. "Are you listening?" John asked again, his temper fraying.

"So that was payback?" Sherlock asked, tilting his chin.

"No. That was…you're being a complete wanker anyway-" John began.

Sherlock reached up, grabbed his chin and pulled him into a kiss.

It wasn't a long one or a good one, more a sweet peck on the lips and then Sherlock's grip turned to iron. "Then I may as well be damned for the day," Sherlock said with an odd, triumphant smile. "Excuse me," he said, sidestepping and continuing up the stairs.

John stayed where he was until he made it to thirty in his head.

He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes before the day was done.

* * *

Once Sherlock had determined that the killer was apparently some spiderman-esque climber who could scale the side of buildings with ease, he seemed hell bent on finding a link. The name Van Coon meant nothing to Andy, though he did mention that Lukis was apparently working as a Hong Kong liaison.

Not to mention there was more graffiti at the library where Lukis had been working on his article.

"Think it was that?" Andy asked, looking worried. "The article I mean."

"You should check it to make sure," Sherlock said absently and ignoring John's doubtful look.

It wasn't the article, John could tell that much from Sherlock's attitude.

What he couldn't tell was why Sherlock was sending Andy away; surely the 'art expert' Sherlock needed to consult about the sprayed symbols wouldn't get that spooked by three people.

* * *

The art expert was nineteen year old Raz who was spray painting down the side of the national gallery.

And who was bloody quick at running away when the police turned up.

* * *

"An ASBO?!"

Sherlock smirked at him. "Really, you should have run faster, John."

"A bloody ASBO!"

There was a chuckle.

"It's not funny," John yelled at him. "Are you determined to punish me or something? First you make some snide comment about the bills, then you kiss me, then you introduce me to Sebastian, then I have to suffer you and Andy being obnoxious and now this-"

"And the second kiss," Sherlock added, staring at the collage he'd created of the symbols. "Don't forget that."

"I'm telling you," John said, waving a warning finger at him. "One more and I mean it Sherlock, one more and you're on your own."

It was like a red rag to a bull.

Sherlock stood and stepped close. "Really? Is that a promise?"

"What are you doing?" John asked, a little panicked. "I told you-"

"An experiment. On the validity of the word of John Watson."

"Don't you dare-"

Sherlock grabbed him hard, and pressed their lips together the way five year olds kissed. A hard press and then away.

"You fix that ASBO," John said, glaring at him as he turned. "I mean it. You fix it."

* * *

Back at his house, John threw himself onto the sofa and glared at the TV.

"You okay?" Ike asked, looking up from the data he was feeding into his laptop.

"Never be friends with an ex," John hissed. "They're bastards."

* * *

_You better be going to sleep tonight. _

Ten minutes later a text came back. _You're ordering me to go to bed? SH_

_I'm ordering you to be less of a tosser tomorrow._

_That sounds like a rather unlikely scenario. SH_

John glared at his phone as he sat in bed. _True. But try anyway._

* * *

"Solved it yet?" John asked as Andy answered his phone.

"No," Andy said in a slightly muted tone. "Why aren't you here? Sherlock won't answer any questions not pertaining to the case."

"He's being a wanker," John said frankly. "No idea what's going on in his head so…this seems safer."

"Calling me?"

John leaned down onto the bar, staring at the empty club. "Bored," he said with a yawn. "Trying to do the orders. So what are you doing?"

"Using Brian's diary to track his last movements," Andy said, his voice showing his boredom with the task.

"You don't seem…torn up," John said slowly.

"No…well…" Andy sighed. "I know his sister better. Brian could be a little…I dunno, forceful with things. Tactless."

"Tactless?" John asked standing up. "Did you just call someone tactless?"

"I can have tact," Andy argued. "I just don't waste it on you."

John laughed and sighed. "And in your tactless opinion, am I doing the right thing, keeping away from Sherlock at the moment?"

Andy let out an odd noise. "Damned if I know."

That wasn't helpful.

* * *

_So I assume you took Van Coon and gave Andy Lukis because you wanted to reconnect with Seb again?_

_Your attempts at being witty are not amusing. SH_

_And stop phoning Andy for gossip. SH_

* * *

_Dckhead slowing for lnch. U in?_

John almost laughed at Andy's text, trying to imagine how Sherlock, the King of grammar, didn't hang himself every time Andy texted him.

* * *

"Sausages?" Andy asked, pushing the plate to John as he sat down.

Sherlock blinked at them both. "You need to stop doing this," he complained, sitting back to sulk. "This buying food for each other thing you do."

John ignored him. "So, found anything else out?"

"They were smuggling something over," Andy told him, tucking into his food with gusto. "We reckon-"

"I deduced," Sherlock muttered, staring at the street and clearly unhappy with the lack of credit he was getting.

"-that one of them picked up an item they shouldn't have."

"And the people after them didn't know who did it," John asked and then nodded at the sausages. "This is good," he said to Andy, approving of the choice.

"You sound more interested in what you are shovelling into your mouth than in the case," Sherlock said with a glare.

"I came for the food," John said frankly. "You threw me off of the case."

"I did not-" Sherlock started indignantly.

"I warned you; three kisses and I was gone."

Andy just shook his head as if pained. "Can you two ever just be normal?" he asked, glaring at them.

Sherlock actually smirked. "Where would be the fun in that?" he asked, reaching out and stealing a sausage from John.

* * *

John managed to get ten minutes down the road before Andy texted.

_Think Sherlock's gt a cof cming. Want me to offer u up 4 sum knky doctor stuff?_

John didn't quite trust himself to reply to that.

* * *

"You on your way to work?" Andy asked.

"Yeah," John paused as he was about to enter the tube station. "Why?

"Can you push it back a few hours?"

* * *

"Why am I here?"

"A journalist was killed," Andy said, peering cautiously around a corner. "They might have a policy on all of us," he added. "You got that gun of yours."

"No."

"Why not?" Andy asked, turning to shoot him a disbelieving stare.

"I was on my way to work," John grit out, following Andy and flashing his torch at the wall, looking for the yellow symbols.

They were on the rail lines around Southbank, where apparently the hooligan Raz had spotted some similar symbols earlier.

Andy was being bloody useless.

"He's happy."

"Who Raz? I bet, I took his bloody ASBO-"

"Would you shut up about that?" Andy muttered, sounding bored by the mention. "I meant Sherlock."

"Well," John shone the light to follow the rail tracks and ensure he didn't trip up. "It's a good case, you should see the way he used to get excited by the cryptic puzzles in the paper. Codes and things like that are what he lives for. What do you expect?"

"It's different," Andy said, falling into step next to him. "He's pleased about something. Something involving you."

That seemed unlikely. "Making deductions of your own now, are you?"

"Every time you text, every time I mention that you've called to check up on us, he looks oddly like something's being proved correct."

"That might not be a good thing," John muttered, trying not to react to every odd noise he heard.

"You know what he's like," Andy said slowly. "He never does anything without a reason."

John glanced at him. "Your point?"

"That Sherlock Holmes doesn't kiss his ex out of habit."

"I know," John said quietly, turning his torch to the next wall they came across.

"And you don't think that's a good thing?" Andy asked, curious.

"I…" John shook his head. "I have no idea," he admitted after a moment. "I don't want to get my hopes up," he said, trying not to think about it too hard. "If it's not…I think it would spoil any headway we've made if I hope and it turns out he's doing it for an experiment in sentimentality for a case or something."

"He wouldn't do that to-"

John grabbed Andy. "Look," he said, casting the torch on the wall, covered with the yellow symbols.

"Call Sherlock-"

"No signal," Andy breathed. "We need to get him."

John hesitated and turned as Andy disappeared into the shadows, trying his own phone for signal.

Nothing.

He glanced up at the wall, then down at his phone screen.

Then clicked the camera.

* * *

"It was here," Andy yelped, staring at the wall and tracing his fingers along it.

Wet paint.

"It was…" Andy almost tried to wipe at it.

Sherlock hissed in frustration. "Why didn't one of you stay-"

John held out his phone to Sherlock. "The miracle of technology," he said smiling at Andy.

"Oh yeah," Andy muttered, shaking his head at the wall.

John watched as Sherlock's face lit up at the picture on the screen. "Excellent," Sherlock breathed, smiling down at it. "I'll give it back to you later."

What?

"No," John said, striding after him. "That's my phone."

"I'm aware of that-"

"My phone, Sherlock, not yours. Mine."

"Then I suggest you stay with me until I download the photos from it."

* * *

For some god unknown reason, Sherlock continued to hold onto John's phone.

"Insurance," he said when John asked him about it the following morning. "This is a criminal organisation, John. I'm sure they won't baulk at stealing a lap top. This," he said, twiddling the phone in the air. "This is much easier to keep safe."

"I can keep it safe," John muttered, following Sherlock down the road, not really paying attention as to where they were going. "It's my phone."

"So you have told me often in the past twelve hours."

"It has my alarm," John added, restraining the urge to dive after the device as it was slipped into Sherlock's inside pocket.

"You are awake," Sherlock sighed. Then the man stopped dead.

"What?"

"Are you going to try and get it back?"

John glared at him. "I'm hoping you'll be mature enough to just give it back to me," John muttered.

The doubtful look that was thrown at John almost made him laugh.

* * *

Hours later, John was in no mood to laugh.

Soo Lin, a beautiful, sweet girl who'd simply wanted to move on with her life was dead because she had dared to walk the straight and narrow and then help him and Sherlock.

They were silent in the taxi.

"You came after me," Sherlock murmured.

Feeling a little numb, John turned his head towards Sherlock, watching the man watch the world beyond the car before he turned back to stare at the taxi driver's head.

"What else was I going to do?" John said, feeling suddenly tired.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock turn his head ever so slightly to him as if he were about to say something before he stopped himself.

"I suppose so," Sherlock said in a flat voice as he turned back to the window and the people beyond it.

* * *

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, having simply given John a firm look when he'd mentioned going back to his.

Tea?

John closed his eyes. "I need to go home," he decided, standing awkwardly in the sitting area, still in his coat.

"John-" Sherlock caught his arm and warmth bled through from his touch. So much so that John stared at the hand on his jacket, silently wondering whether it was the recent lack of touching anyone that made him feel this touch more or whether it was Sherlock.

"Is it an experiment?" John asked, turning to look at him. "The kissing?"

Sherlock dropped his hand from John's arm slowly. "In a way," he said with a sigh.

Having expected the answer, John nodded and, at a loss, folded his arms, glancing at the door and feeling idly as if he were waiting to be dismissed.

"You're not going to ask what for?" Sherlock said curiously.

John shook his head. "I assume it will be done with soon?" he asked, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

"Sit," Sherlock said backing away a little. "And I presume that jacket is not surgically grafted to your skin?"

Not entirely sure that he wanted to hear what Sherlock had to say, John shot another look at the door. Then, annoyed at himself, he pulled his jacket off and sat in one of the chairs, glaring at the windows.

Might as well hear it and get it over with, he supposed.

"You think it's for a case," Sherlock murmured, sitting opposite him and steepling his hands together.

"I don't want to know," John said firmly, still staring at the curtain. "Just finish the experiment and we can forget about it."

The weight of Sherlock's stare was almost tangible, but he said nothing. In the end, John had to look across, to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"What?"

"You've changed," Sherlock said softly.

"And I suppose you hate that," John sighed, almost wishing he'd accepted the offer of tea so he had something to do with his hands.

Sherlock seemed to churn the idea over in his mind. "I enjoyed you, innocent and babbling," he said eventually. "I enjoyed the feeling that I could fix things, that I…that someone believed I could fix anything."

"God," John said, tipping his head back. "I have no idea why I fascinated you back then. The person you're describing…" he smiled, almost fond of the memories. "I was a bloody idiot."

"A child," Sherlock said softly.

True.

"You don't worry about what I think anymore," Sherlock said in that same calming voice. "What people in general think. You don't try to smooth over things and make everything better. You argue with me and take the hard road rather than the pliable one."

"Is that why you're doing it?" John asked, elbow on one of the chair arms as he rose to cover his mouth and rub at his chin thoughtfully. "Proving that I'm not the person you once…" he faltered at the idea of saying 'love' to Sherlock, "…cared for?"

"No." Sherlock hesitated. "Not at all."

Something was in Sherlock's eyes and suddenly, John wanted no part of the conversation.

"You…" John dropped his hand as he stared at Sherlock. "You said…" he faltered, not even wanting to raise the topic of how Sherlock had completely shut down any hopes for them being more. "I am not in the mood for you having a fickle week," John said, standing and holding out his hand for his phone. "Give me the phone."

Sherlock stood, something familiar in his eyes causing John to close his. "Don't," John said, shaking his head.

His phone was placed in his hand and Sherlock closed their fingers over it.

"Give me space," Sherlock said slowly. "Text or phone, but don't come here and don't meet up with Andy while he's helping me. I…I need time."

It sounded like…

John squashed the thought down ruthlessly, but he hovered, unsure of what to say as he stared at their interlaced hands holding the phone.

"You have got to know what it sounds like you are saying to me," John whispered, not daring to look up. "You made it clear, Sherlock. You said…and now-" he looked up, needing to see-

Hesitation.

Sherlock was unsure.

It took John's breath away because if Sherlock looked hesitant, rather than curious or committing to act an emotion then…

"Sherlock?" John breathed, trying not to hope.

This time when Sherlock leaned in, he didn't take his eyes off of John's. Slowly, almost barely touching, he ghosted his lips over John's.

It was so fragile, so careful and unsure that John barely dared to breathe as he leaned forward a little to add the faintest increase in pressure.

Sherlock pulled back, just a little. "I would appreciate…space," he said, looking a little uncomfortable.

A thousand and one questions burned in John's brain but he pressed his mouth together and nodded, trying to even out his breathing as he headed for the door.

"If I said it still wasn't enough," Sherlock's voice chased after him. "What would you say?"

Slowly, John turned back. "That if you still believe that, even though we're standing here, considering this after all we've been through, after all we've done to each other, then you're an idiot, Sherlock," John said, trying to glean some information from the way Sherlock stood with his back to John.

Sherlock said nothing.

* * *

Next Chapter: The Blind Basterds part 2: Andy has a slight suspicion that he's being paid back for an off hand comment made last week to Sherlock.


	29. The Blind Bastards part 2

The Blind Bastards part 2

Andy is having a difficult week...

* * *

Just as a small note for those of you who may not be familiar with the phrase; pulling a door over or closing a door over means almost closing it (like before the door clicks shut you have a slither of a gap)

* * *

_One week earlier_

This was stupid, Andy thought to himself. Embarrassing actually. Thank God none of his mates were round to see it or he'd never live it down.

Though, thinking about it, he'd better get a move on because Mike might trot on down at any moment.

He could do it.

He'd asked thousands of girls…well…sixty? No… Andy started to count on his fingers, trying to remember the pretty girl he'd handed a daisy to when he'd been seven-

Even he could tell it was a shite attempt at putting it off.

Steeling himself, he opened the door and immediately felt like firing off every single swear word that he knew.

Fucking Sherlock Holmes was bending over a body while Molly floated around him.

It was so stupid! Andy knew that, knew it was thick to be interested in someone who was so clearly infatuated with one of his mates but logic had never really been his strong suit.

"Oh, hello," Molly greeted him happily with one of her sweet smiles. "I read your article the other day. In the paper," she added, in case he'd forgotten where his payslip had come from.

"Yeah," Andy smiled as every single thing he knew about the article he'd spent weeks researching flew from his head. "I…it was a good one."

She nodded brightly. "Well, I certainly thought it was lovely to get such a different perspective."

Yes. Perspective.

He nodded again and looked hopefully at Sherlock.

"Do you want some tea?" Molly asked, sounding a little less bright.

He hated tea.

"Yeah," he nodded. "That'd be good."

He nearly sunk onto the table when she wandered out. When he looked up again, Sherlock had straightened and was staring at him with wide eyes.

"For fuck sakes," Andy muttered. "Two years I manage to keep that from you and now you decide to pay attention."

"You cannot have been interested in her for two years," Sherlock said, looking affronted. "You barely manage to sustain an interest for two minutes."

"Thanks," Andy muttered.

"And you've hardly been pining," Sherlock added with disapproval.

"What's the point?" Andy asked. "I'm not known for being…" he searched for the right word.

"Committed?" Sherlock offered.

That would do. "And she knows that and she's too sweet and she adores you."

Sherlock nodded and bent over the body again, then stiffened and straightened. "Adores me?"

"Oh be kidding!"

* * *

_Five days earlier_

"Why did you not start dating Molly?"

Sherlock chose the strangest places to ask questions.

"First rule of the tube; you do not talk on the tube," Andy muttered, flipping through the metro.

"Everyone on here is dull. I have nothing else to do. Answer the question."

Andy shrugged. "I…because I'm like a twelve year old with his first crush. It's embarrassing. And I wouldn't work in a relationship and she deserves better."

"You care about her, she for you. Why would it not work?"

Really?

Andy turned to look at Sherlock. "You have no say, not when you and John are doing…fuck only knows what you two are doing."

"I do not want a relationship-"

"Bull, you're in one," Andy muttered.

It was the wrong thing to say. Next to him Sherlock went rigid and a glance confirmed that he was pressing his lips together as if to grind bones between them.

Fuck it; in for a penny, in for a pound.

"You're just too fucking stubborn to get an orgasm out of it."

Sherlock got off at the next stop without saying a word to Andy.

* * *

_Yesterday_

"So," Andy said after John gave up trying to get his phone back and sulked off home to go to sleep. "Kissing John?"

Sherlock reached for the door and slammed it shut on him.

* * *

_Today._

When Andy got home from comforting Michelle about Brian's death (and trying not to say anything while Michelle and her boyfriend waxed lyrical about the idiot's writing ability) there was a note on the door mat.

Two tickets to the circus.

_Ask Molly SH._

That dipstick could occasionally come through, Andy thought with a smile.

* * *

"Sherlock isn't here," Molly said looking worried. "Should he be here?" she added, glancing at the storage cupboard-thing that held all those sodding dead bodies.

"No," Andy said, trying not to look at the body on the slab that looked nothing like a human should. "I came to see you."

"Oh," she said brightly, "Do you need help with a story?"

Anyone else, anyone at all and he would have made a joke, flashed a grin, wrapped an arm about her and tried to make it sound as if the circus was the greatest thing on earth.

"Yes," he said, while some part of himself was rolling his eyes at what he was doing. "Yes," he added, more defiantly, "I have circus tickets," he said, lifting them as proof, "and I was hoping you would come with me to help research. A story," he added as his mind suddenly jumped to other forms of 'research' he had done over the years.

"Oh," she looked startled. "Going out…yes." She looked down seeming suddenly pleased. "What's the story about?"

What story?

Oh.

"Uh, best not to tell you," Andy said stepping closer and then remembering there was a disgusting corpse between them and instantly regretting it. "Bias," he said seriously. "I need a fresh perspective and you're smart so I figured you'd be a good pick."

She blushed.

It almost made him melt.

"Are you sure you don't want Sherlock?" she asked looking suddenly earnest. "He sees much more than-"

"No," Andy cut her off. "Believe me, I don't want Sherlock."

* * *

He didn't want Sherlock at all which was why the man adding himself to their date was in no way happening.

"Excuse us," Andy said to Molly who was looking on the verge of hurt as he dragged Sherlock into the stair well. "I'll be back in a sec and then we can go in."

"Okay," Molly said as she looked around uncomfortably.

"What are you doing?" Andy hissed at Sherlock.

"I needed you and Molly to build up the numbers," Sherlock frowned at him. "I told you to ask Molly. What is the problem?"

"I thought you meant go take Molly on a date," Andy snapped. "An apology would be good."

Sherlock snorted. "Why would I be apologising?"

"Where's John?"

All Andy received was a frosty glare as Sherlock strode back up the stairs.

* * *

_Wats ging on?_

_Please, just leave it alone. Nothing bad or good just leave us to this._

* * *

"So, because both Sherlock and I know what's going on, I thought you would be my best bet," Andy tried to explain to Molly as they stood waiting for the performance to begin. "I didn't make that clear-"

"No," Molly hurried to assure him. "Well, yes, but sometimes we can all say silly things," she said with one of her sweet smiles. "It's fine, really."

No, fine would have been him being allowed to give her a hug for being so good about it all.

He was such a wanker.

* * *

No, Sherlock was such a wanker.

After the show had finished abruptly due to Sherlock sneaking backstage and starting a fight with someone (which had then led to a battle charge from the rest) Andy sat with his head in his hands.

"I fail to see why you're so upset by it," Sherlock muttered, his voice a little raw from almost being choked at one point.

Should have been choked a little more in Andy's opinion.

Molly was fussing over him, flapping and trying to help and then looking uncertain about being so close to Sherlock.

It was like a nightmare, an actual nightmare.

* * *

"So this is where you live?" Molly asked as they set foot in the flat. "It's…"

A mess?

"Eclectic," Molly offered. "You have a lot of books," she added, stepping closer.

Andy had a dawning moment of horror by what Sherlock might have meant when he mentioned 'making up the numbers'.

"The code is numeric," Sherlock said, holding out the pictures printed from John's phone. "They refer to a book. It stands to reason that it is a book both Van Koon and Lukis owned." He swept a hand at the boxes.

"I'm going home," Andy muttered, grabbing his coat.

"Oh," Molly looked at him and then at the boxes as if steeling herself. "Well, still, two people are better than one," she said to Sherlock.

Behind her, Sherlock smirked and shook his head in mock disapproval. "Do you not have an early shift Molly? How thoughtful of you to offer to help."

Fucking, fucker!

Andy tossed his coat on the chair again and stormed into the kitchen then yanked open the door and glared at the contents.

There was nothing.

When he stormed back into the living area, Molly and Sherlock were bent over a picture.

"…had started to translate it," Sherlock muttered, sounding a bit put out.

"You hadn't seen it?" Molly asked.

"No, I was…" Sherlock shook a hand at whatever it was he had been doing. "Distracted," he offered after a moment.

"Nine mill," Molly read out, looking over at Andy and shrugging.

"Nine million?" Andy offered, stepping close.

"How…" Sherlock stood suddenly, reminding Andy of one of those Meerkat adverts. "It had to be at the museum," he declared, rushing to the door.

"Wait, where are you going?" Andy asked.

"To the museum, the restoration office," Sherlock explained for once. "We must have been staring at it the whole time-" he turned as if looking for someone and then shook himself. "Soo Linn started to translate the text while John and I…" Sherlock pulled a frustrated face. "Damn," he muttered as he turned on his heel and walked out.

"Why damn?" Molly asked slowly.

"I don't think he wants to talk to John," Andy sighed. God he was bloody starving-

Wait…

"I could order us a takeaway," he offered slowly. "We could eat, wait for him to get back and see if he needs any help?"

"You'll stay?" Molly asked hopefully.

"Yeah," Andy smiled. "So, what's your choice? Chinese? Italian? Thai?"

"Well there seems to be a theme to the evening," Molly offered. "Chinese?"

Andy nodded.

Things were looking up.

* * *

**John**

"What was in the restoration room?" Sherlock demanded as John opened the door.

"The what?" John asked as he opened the door further.

Which of course, Sherlock took as an invitation to barge in.

For a moment John stared out at the street, at the pouring rain and those leaving the bars a little early to get home for work tomorrow. Despite the noise, it looked far more appealing than the whirlwind that had crashed into his living room.

With a sigh he shut the door.

"I take it this is strictly for a case?" he asked as he turned to Sherlock.

There was a flicker in Sherlock's eyes as he nodded. "Three pace rule," he added, turning away.

Had Sherlock seen the house? Three paces would probably put them in separate rooms.

"Right," John leaned against the door. "The restoration room?"

"Was Soo Linn looking at a book or reaching for anything?"

"No," John shook his head. "We were…she was ducking down, scared-"

And he'd left her.

Sherlock took a step forward.

"Three paces," John sighed. "Look, I don't remember her going for anything but I'd guess it must have been close. She didn't look like she wanted to go out into the open. You should go there."

"I know."

John looked up at him. "You wanted space," he said gently. "You're on a case, this isn't…this is not a good idea."

"No."

Sherlock was much too close.

"John!" Kyle called. "Are you free? This map is just odd."

"Yeah," John said, turning his head to the side. "Just give me a moment-"

Sherlock suddenly turned and stared at the door.

"Oh," he said, blinking. "Oh!"

Turning, Sherlock walked to their shitty little bookshelf and started scanning the spines of the books.

"I really doubt-"

Sherlock pulled the London A-Z out of the shelf with triumph and flicked through the pages.

"Nine Mill," he muttered with triumph. "Nine mill, John!"

"That's…that's the book?" John asked, stunned.

"It's brilliant; everyone has one. Small enough to carry around, common enough to ignore when it is seen." Sherlock almost spun with the book and then sat, muttering to himself.

"John?" Kyle called again.

"Yeah, just…five minutes," John called back as he got out his phone. "I'll call Andy-"

"How do you know he was with me?"

John looked down at the text.

_Wnkr just lft. Mite b going 2 u. feel 3 to kill hm._

"Deduced it," he lied, holding the phone to his ear as he called.

"A text is not a feat of great deduction," Sherlock muttered, still looking through the map.

"I asked for information," John shrugged and dialled again as Andy failed to pick up. "You really took Andy and Molly out to the circus without telling Andy you'd be there?"

"If we do not have time to discuss what we are doing then we certainly have no time to gossip about their pathetic dalliance."

John sighed and called Andy again. "He's not answering," John said with a frown.

"He always answers," Sherlock muttered. "I've heard another dalliance complain that he stopped mid-"

"He's not answering," John glared at him. "Do you have Molly's number?"

Sherlock tossed John his phone. "I hardly need them now," he added a little petulantly.

"I know, which is why I'm telling Andy they can go home and sleep," John scrolled down for Molly's contact details. "Not everyone stays awake for days on end."

"Sleeping is boring," Sherlock said as he straightened with pride. "Nine mill Fore Jade Pin Dragon Den Black Tramway," he translated.

"And that means?"

"No idea," Sherlock sneered and turned to the map. "Obviously it's a jade pin…" he trailed off looking thoughtful and then shook his head. "Black tramway den?" he scowled and poured over the map of London.

"They aren't answering," John sighed and dialled again, a different number this time.

Mrs Hudson answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Hudson," John smiled. "Would you mind popping up to the flat and telling Andy and Molly they can go home?"

"I don't think they're up there," Mrs Hudson said. "It's awfully quiet. I popped out to see Mrs Turner, poor love, she had such a nasty slip down those stairs the other day. Her boys weren't around; they'd been to a wedding. She said it was themed with the colours of the rainbow-"

"Can you check?" John asked, cutting her off before she decided to dissect the entire bloody wedding.

There was a slight grumble. "Well, those stairs, John. The can be so treacherous and my hip-"

"I just want to send Andy and Molly home," John said restraining the urge to sigh. "They've had a long night. Please."

Mrs Hudson sighed. "As it's you," she huffed. "But if I slip-"

"I'll be straight over to the rescue," John assured her.

"Sherlock really shouldn't keep his friends up so late," Mrs Hudson chided. "He might like running around at all hours of the night but it's not sociable. Poor girl looked half asleep when they came in."

"Yeah, well, he's a night owl," John said, leaning on the arm of a chair opposite Sherlock.

"Oh…what's on my bloody windows?"

John didn't want to know. Holding the phone away from him, he glared at Sherlock. "Do I want to know what you've done to her windows?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing," he muttered, still studying the map. "Why on earth would I do something to windows?"

"Paint," Mrs Hudson was still complaining. "Bright yellow paint. What goes on in that boy's head?"

Paint?

"Uh…how yellow is the paint?" John asked, standing up. Opposite, Sherlock's head shot up and his eyes narrowed.

The question seemed to confuse her. "Well…it's not a nice buttercup colour that you would use on the walls-"

The phone was taken from his hands.

"Is it a symbol?" Sherlock demanded.

Oh god.

"And Molly and Andy?" Sherlock said so quickly that John was amazed Mrs Hudson had time to answer the first question.

Then he ended the call.

"They have them," Sherlock said, picking up the map and heading for the door.

John reached for his coat.

"No," Sherlock turned. "I do not have time to argue-"

"Then don't," John hissed. "But I am not staying here while you walk into a smuggling ring. You piss most people off just by opening your mouth, let alone getting in between criminals and nine million pounds," he said, opening the door and stepping out into the rain.

"It'll be dangerous," Sherlock added, chasing after him and slamming the door closed behind him.

"Completely wrong tact to use if you're trying to put me off," John turned to him, jamming his hands into his pockets. "So, where we going?"

Eying him warily, Sherlock tapped his foot.

"They have Molly and Andy," John argued. "We don't have time for this."

Sherlock pointed a finger at John. "Do not get shot," was all he said before hailing a taxi.

Great advice.

* * *

The tunnels were foul.

"You chose to come with me," Sherlock muttered.

"Be quiet," John hissed. "The noise will carry."

"I sincerely doubt that two of us will be louder than smugglers interrogating Andy," Sherlock said with a shake of his head. "We'll hear them long before they hear us."

He hated it when Sherlock had a point. Avoiding the odd rat, John tried to keep an ear out for Andy screeching.

"Why take them?" John asked. "Are they expecting you to turn up?"

"I…they may assume Andy is me."

"And why would they assume that?" John asked.

"I needed to look around without people focusing on me. I gave Andy the booking and my card for the confirmation and the tickets were in my name."

"So when you say they may assume Andy is you, you mean you led them to that assumption."

"I didn't intend for Andy to get kidnapped in my stead," Sherlock sounded almost put out.

"No, far better they had kidnapped you," John said, restraining the urge to wallop him one.

"I would have dealt with it," Sherlock said arrogantly.

"You'd better had," John snapped. "If you die before we talk about…this, then I will follow you just to kill you again."

"You'd kill yourself if I died?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"It's an expression," John said, slightly uncomfortable.

"But would-"

The sound of shouting echoed down the tunnel.

"Come on," Sherlock said, racing ahead.

* * *

"I'm not," Andy was shouting loudly. "I'm not him, I swear it. Please, just let her go. I'm not Sherlock, I don't know the answer-"

"I don't believe you," a woman said, bending over him as she held a gun to his temple.

God.

"You should you know," Sherlock called out.

Clearly Sherlock had never quite understood the role of surprise. Turning, John looked at him incredulously and then blinked when Sherlock pressed a finger to his own lips, then gestured at Molly.

Taking the instruction, John peeled away from him, trying to keep quiet.

"Sherlock Holmes is a great deal more brilliant than he is. Wouldn't you agree Andy?"

Andy stared at him and then at the woman. "He…he's insane," he tried weakly.

"You should show more gratitude to your rescuer," Sherlock chided as he swung a metal pipe at the guy dressed like a warlord.

The guy went down like a stone and John circled round, trying to keep out of sight as he made it to Molly's side-

The woman pointed a gun at Sherlock.

At Sherlock who was completely unprotected.

John hesitated. Both of them were unarmed but he might be able to-

"That's a semi-automatic. You fire it - the bullet will travel at a thousand metres per second," Sherlock pointed out, sounding unconcerned.

"Well?" the woman asked.

"Well, these walls have a radius of curvature of nearly four metres. If you miss then the bullet will

ricochet. Who knows where? You could hit anyone. The bullet could bounce around the tunnel and hit you."

His eyes flickered to Molly pointedly.

Reluctantly, John continued over to her and started on the ropes keeping her bound to the chair and in the trajectory of the crossbow pointed at her.

"I don't plan on missing," the woman pointed out.

"I'd take those sun glasses off then," Sherlock suggested smugly.

The next thing John knew, Sherlock had kicked the burning brazier and then disappeared into the shadows. Relieved, John focused on his task properly, glancing at the contraption that threatened Molly's life as he fumbled for his keys and the small pen-knife set he kept on the ring as bullets went crashing around the tunnel.

The knife was shockingly shit, but it loosened the twine enough that he could start to pull the threads of the rope apart.

In the shadows he could hear Sherlock struggling with someone-

Focus. Panicking wouldn't get the job done.

He had to trust that Sherlock could manage.

Even if it did sound like he was really struggling-

Turning to look at the shadows, John thought he could make out Sherlock with someone-

He was being choked.

Running over would be pointless. He had nothing to pull them apart from each other or to kill with.

He glanced at the contraption again.

Darting forward he reached for the crossbow contraption, re-aimed it and slammed his fist down on the weight.

The man strangling Sherlock fell back from the force of it.

Dead.

Sherlock shot him a look. "Doing that earlier would have been preferable," he snapped.

"You're welcome," John shot back as he glanced over at Andy. "You good?"

Andy nodded as he let his head fall forward. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "You okay?" he asked Molly.

She nodded and smiled at Sherlock who came forward to finish untying her.

"Any time, John," Andy added.

"Is thank you beyond you?" John sighed as he started to work on Andy's ropes.

"You did fuck all to help me," Andy looked so pale in the pathetic light. Shock, John thought with a sigh, but he was trying to keep it together.

"I know," John said, trying to play along.

"I thought…" Andy shuddered and looked like he might hurl. "I really thought that was it," he breathed. "I was getting ready to haunt Sherlock for the next thousand years."

* * *

"You'll have bruises," John declared as he studied Sherlock's throat with a frown. "Why…you have other bruises here as well…have you been strangled before this week?"

"We had an encounter in Soo Linn's flat," Sherlock said, his voice sounding hoarse.

"You really have had a good week," John sighed as they sat at the back of an ambulance while the paramedics checked Andy and Molly over. "Seriously, this is the third time this week that you've been-"

Sherlock leaned forward onto him, effectively cutting John's rant off midstream as Sherlock's curly head rested on his chest. With a sigh, John stroked his hand through the detective's hair.

"I'll get you home, yeah?" John murmured gently. "You need sleep."

"John-"

"Don't," John breathed gently. "Not tonight, not after this. You need to rest." He smiled and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hair. "Doctor's orders."

There was a long sigh and Sherlock nodded, even as he raised his head.

It was impossible not to lean in. But, all too aware that Sherlock needed space and time, John pressed a kiss to the man's forehead and breathed him in, hoping to God this wasn't the last time he was allowed to do it.

* * *

Back at the flat, John helped Sherlock into his room. The slight suspicion that had been nagging at the back of his mind fled when Sherlock just crashed onto the bed and took a deep sigh. He'd half suspected the exhaustion to be a ploy.

It was with staggering fondness that John watched with his hands on his hips, trying to work out what to do with the idiot that was almost asleep on top of the bed covers, fully dressed. Sherlock had clearly worked himself to the bones with this case and John couldn't help the twinge of guilt that he'd let Sherlock do this alone.

Andy didn't count – he was a lazy shite when he wanted to be.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, John started to work on Sherlock's shoes, unlacing them. After a moment or two, Sherlock turned over onto his back, giving John easier access to his shoes.

John worked in silence, unlacing first the left and then the right before stripping off the socks underneath.

Completely unbidden the image of kissing Sherlock's ankles flashed through his head. Another day, another flat years ago when he had tried to distract Sherlock from his emails and ended up having sex with him for the first time.

It seemed so very long ago now, yet he could still remember with perfect clarity the awe he had felt when Sherlock had handed him the lube.

Awe and love.

"I should go," John said quietly, looking through the door and at the light that was shining through from the kitchen.

Sherlock said nothing and John didn't risk looking over his shoulder as he stood and reached for the door handle to pull it over as he left.

"I have a question."

Another one?

John stared at the side of the door, hovering and debating whether to close it over and put the light on or leave it as it was. Unsure, he glanced over at Sherlock. "Yes?"

The man had sat up and his head was tilted as he stared at John. "Why will we work this time when we didn't before?"

Ah. That question.

John smoothed a thumb over the door before leaving it alone and stepping slightly closer to Sherlock.

"I…" he paused and rethought, feeling that this conversation might very well be the most important one he'd ever had. "Do you remember at your Mum's years ago, at Christmas, I said you were like a storm?"

The eye-roll was almost tangible. "Am I about to be subjected to a metaphor rather than a proper answer?"

Ignoring him, John resisted the urge to fold his arms. "I…you…you are incredible and I always worried that I had to be just as incredible to keep up."

Mercifully, Sherlock said nothing.

"I let myself get dragged around and battered by you. I got lost in you and I had no idea half the time where I was or what I wanted to do. And I needed to go away, to…" John hesitated and then ploughed on. "As selfish as it is, I wanted to see what else there was, what I might be missing out on."

On the bed, Sherlock shifted and John was glad he couldn't see the man's expression in the half light.

"And because I needed to be able to fight against you at times," John continued on. "To pull you back or…" he looked away and sighed. "I am so shit at explaining this," he said covering his eyes. "I guess…because now I know what I need to do to be equal to you and I don't see it as a compromise anymore or me playing second fiddle. I see it just as something I want to do, something that will make me happy and something I know I can give you."

"And what is that?" Sherlock asked, his tone frosty.

"You do great things," John said quietly. "But you get as lost as I did in your own brilliance. You spin out of control, you can be a whirlwind of destruction and lack of tact. You forget normality. And when people get lost so easily, they need something a…like the North Star or a landmark. One fixed point to get them to safety again. And that point…it stays still. It stays constant. It stays within reach, a hand held out for when you need something to hold onto."

It was so hard, not being able to see Sherlock's face, to work out if the words were having the right effect or even any effect at all. "And I know sometimes…often," John corrected with a steeling breath, "I would back down, run away. Ignore things. And I won't now. I'll fight damn hard for us. So I can't promise we will work or stay together forever and I definitely can't promise you that we won't fight like cat and dog. What I can promise you, what I can tell you will never change, is that I will always want you in my life and I will always be that one thing you can come back to if you need to focus yourself again. And this time, if you're still willing, I can be your partner, standing by your side rather than behind you. The way you wanted the first time around."

Silence.

So John waited. An excruciatingly long time of waiting after having made what could possibly be the most prattish speech of his life.

Taking a risk, John closed the door and waited. The sound of their breathing was so loud in the stillness of the bedroom that John was sure Sherlock could hear every nervous swallow.

It had been too long.

Sherlock could talk himself in and out of anything. And the longer John waited the more certain he was that-

"Stay."

Stay?

The meaning sunk in so slowly, that John stayed utterly still, stunned.

Stay.


	30. On the same page

On the same page

John and Sherlock have a discussion after the night before.

* * *

Stay.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the wall across from him.

There was the sound of snoring echoing throughout the room, but the bed wasn't dipping with the weight of another person.

John was in the room but not in the bed.

It was a relief in many ways. Having John lying next to him would have felt more…definite, more confirmed.

He'd been tired, exhausted with being up for nearly four days solid, his mind whirring with questions of John when not focused on the case.

Stay.

Turning, Sherlock looked at John who had at some point dragged a chair into his room and was sleeping in it, currently defying gravity. His eyes flickered in REM sleep.

He wouldn't wake for a while.

Getting out of bed, Sherlock padded into the kitchen and sat at the table. Coffee sounded good but the smell would wake John – hot drinks always seemed to have that effect on him. Just tap a spoon on the side of the cup and-

Sherlock placed his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands.

He knew far too much about John's habits.

* * *

It was roughly an hour later before John came out of the room and edged towards the table cautiously. Sherlock listened to the slow footsteps, fingers now pressed to a point under his chin as he stared into the living room.

"Coffee," he said absently.

There was a pause before John moved to make it. The kettle went on and there was a comforting clang of mugs and spoons as John started to get everything out.

"You were tired last night," John said quietly. "I…it's fine."

He hated those words from John's lips. Always had.

"It's logical," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at the window,"For us to be together."

From the sound it seemed the spoon was placed with great care upon the table. "That's not a good reason, Sherlock," John said tightly. "This isn't a logical decision, you have to want it-"

"I do," Sherlock replied, still staring. "That has been taken into consideration for the logical criteria."

"You do?" John said flatly. "Right…you seem thrilled about it."

"I didn't see it," Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes from the windows. There was a slight smear upon the upper pane and chipped paint on the wood that meant Mrs Hudson had been forcing the damned thing to open again. "What you saw, what you knew was wrong. I never saw it."

The expected soothing nonsense never came. Instead the kettle clicked off and the sound of water pouring rang out before the smell of coffee hit the air.

When John brought it over, he sat opposite Sherlock, blocking his view of the windows.

Annoying.

Switching his gaze to John's face, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Nothing to say?"

"No," John said frankly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"What can I say?" John asked, wrapping his hands around the mug. "It's a risk for you. I can't make you trust me. I can earn it but I can't convince you before we start this. You'll either take the leap or you won't."

True enough, Sherlock supposed. "Andy believes we are already in a relationship, just without having sex."

"We aren't friends," John said frankly. "We know that. I suppose…" John sighed and lifted his hands to cup each other as he raised his thumbs to his mouth, elbows on the table. "We should be realistic about this. Either scale it back a bit or…" John trailed off uncertainly.

"What happened to always 'holding out a hand'?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

"I will," John replied. "But you don't need a hand every day. Or every six hours and that's what we're doing at the moment.

Minutely, Sherlock shook his head. "I dislike the idea of you not being in my life," he said slowly.

John dropped his hands back to the table with a sigh. "That won't happen," he said. "Just…less maybe. We fall into bad habits otherwise."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, tapping his fingers against them. "Or?"

A nervous, skittered gaze jumped back to his face. "Or…" John licked his lips nervously. "We're in a relationship."

A relationship. It sounded suddenly like a rather large word.

"Are you still in love with me?"

John blinked. "I…yes," he said sounding slightly wary. "But I can resist-"

"Clearly."

John's jaw tilted up. "I just have more fucking tact than you," he snapped.

Good. That was better than this odd polite conversation as if they were utterly dull and conversing about the weather.

"Honesty," Sherlock said, sitting back.

"Fine." John almost smirked. "Was it really habit that had you shoving me against the fridge?"

"You know it wasn't," Sherlock replied.

"Then what was it?"

Sherlock drummed a finger on the table. "You should answer first," he said. "You left."

John stared at him. "Rule two. We never throw things from our last relationship in each other's face."

"Convenient," Sherlock snapped.

John leaned forward. "Tell me again who it was that threatened to go out, get so shit faced that he'd be sent to hospital just to punish me for going into the army?"

Ah.

"You hardly had to deal with it," Sherlock muttered.

"Because I ended up in a coma, not because you had a sudden miraculous epiphany," John argued. "If you want to play the game then we will, but don't think for a second that you won't come out of it just as bad as me."

"Ah, yes. Remember that time you proposed and I turned you down?"

"Remember that time I let you give up your entire life to follow me around the world and be miserable?" John snapped back.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "You put me second when it came to the army."

"You started that one," John said firmly. "Drugs, ego, me."

"I changed," Sherlock said, shifting.

John spread his hands.

"I chose to change," Sherlock remedied.

"No you didn't," John said shaking his head. "You were scared into changing. You knew there was no way you could use after that. If I hadn't got hurt that night do you really think anything would have changed?"

"Would you be here if you weren't shot?"

"I don't know," John said quietly. "But at least I'm being honest with you about that. Always have been."

True, Sherlock supposed. And they'd been over it enough times. "Agreed," Sherlock said eventually. "They are two separate relationships. What happened in the first should not affect the second."

John nodded. "Okay. So that and honesty…" He seemed to ponder that. "Can…If I don't want to talk about something, can I just say I don't want to talk about it?" he asked, his finger tracing a scar in the surface of the table.

"Can I annoy you to do so?"

John almost smiled. "I'd expect nothing else. It's just…" he looked as if he were struggling for a moment. "I dunno. Some things…" he shook his head. "I need to sort them out in my head first."

"That would go both ways," Sherlock warned.

John nodded, as if he'd expected little else.

Sherlock sat up again. "The work comes first," he said narrowing his gaze. "If we are staring anew, I will not give that up for a new partner."

John winced. "There's starting afresh and then there's just being a tit about it," he said after a moment. "We have been together. I don't want to forget that. I just don't want the same arguments over and over again."

"The work-"

"God," John groaned. "Tell me one time I have ever stopped you? Ever sighed in disapproval? I might object to the way you talk to people, but the work itself…" he shook his head. "You were meant to do it, Sherlock. It's part of you now. And I like helping you with it."

Part of Sherlock bristled at the idea of 'help'. The other part nodded, pleased at the idea John might work with him. Properly.

He scanned for the next thing.

Nothing.

"I can't do this again," he said slowly to the table. "If…if it doesn't…I cannot do it again."

When he looked over, John was frowning at the table, tense and swallowing heavily.

"You could," John replied after a moment. "You could do anything."

And God it was pathetic, but Sherlock felt a flicker of relief that there was still that eighteen year old moron somewhere in John who still thought Sherlock was brilliant.

And it was oddly better because this John wasn't a naïve teen. He was realistic, calm.

Fixed.

And the leap suddenly wasn't quite so dangerous. Everything he wanted, would ever want, was sitting across from him, waiting.

The same, just….a little different.

The choice was as hard as he made it to be.

A word. Two options.

Stay or go.

Except it was hardly a choice. There would always only be one answer.

"Stay," Sherlock said, before taking a sip of his coffee.

There was an odd burn of relief. The sudden calm that came from making a decision. Of seeing the pieces slot together.

Of placing a foot upon a path and setting upon it.

There was a flicker of surprise on John's face and the start of a smile. "Okay," he said as the smile turned into a fully-fledged one.

"Slowly," Sherlock added warily.

John nodded. "Properly," he added. "I want to do this properly now. No shagging as mates or moving in before we're ready-"

"Already thinking about moving out of that hovel?" Sherlock asked. "Really, you do have a talent for picking the most disgusting places known to-"

John leaned across the table and caught Sherlock's lips with his own.

The kiss was gentle and sweet, despite the lingering bitterness of unsweetened coffee on John's tongue.

They could do this again.

Cautiously, Sherlock lifted his hands into John's hair, running through the short strands and stroking his thumbs down the side of John's face.

It didn't last long but instead of pulling away, they leaned their foreheads against each other, sharing breath.

John's hands slid down and gripped Sherlock's shirt, his head sliding down to rest in Sherlock's shoulder as his own shook slightly.

Wrapping an arm around his back, Sherlock turned his face into John's hair and breathed him in, the smell of John again permeating everything.

And the relief of having this again after all this time made him grip just a little harder.

Stay.

Always.

* * *

"How did this happen?" John asked, tracing fingers over a scar just below Sherlock's wrist.

"Knife," Sherlock answered, watching John's fingers. "A killer who didn't take to being apprehended."

They were lying on the bed, side by side and slightly turned into each other.

"Did you annoy him?" John asked with a small smile in his voice.

"I had him arrested, I don't believe he found that pleasing."

John chuckled a little, his thumb now smoothing over the line marring Sherlock's skin. "Funny that," he said shaking his head.

"Can I see it?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

It was hardly fair that he was the only one getting quizzed about scars. Especially as his were far less interesting.

Looking a little hesitant, John sat up and pulled at the collar on the t-shirt he was wearing.

"John, I have seen every inch of you naked. I think you can remove the shirt."

It took slightly longer than Sherlock had expected it to, but John nodded in the end, turning slightly and lifting his shirt over his head.

"It's neat," Sherlock said, staring at the scar on John's back.

"That side is," John said, his muscles looking tense before he turned.

He'd been shot from behind.

The scar on his front, just below his shoulder, was a mess from the exit of the bullet. Sherlock sat up, hands reaching out to smooth across the white lines.

No wonder John had that tremor. It was amazing really, that he'd gained back most of the use of his arm. The bullet must have torn through muscle and chipped bone.

"Not pretty," John said with a rueful shrug.

Fascinating though.

"Poor shot," Sherlock said studying the scar. "It caught you in the best place really-"

"I was tugged down," John said sharply. "I was holding out my hand and Mellor tugged me down and to the side-"

A chest shot.

The heart.

His own fluttered in horror.

If not for this 'Mellor', John would have fallen to the sand, dead. No second chances-

"Did he survive?" Sherlock asked, suddenly needing to do something, somehow.

"No."

John's voice was just a little too flat. "What happened?" Sherlock asked.

Dark eyes stared at him before John shook his head. "I really…don't want to talk about it right now."

Accepting that, Sherlock smoothed his hand down John's chest, down skin that was still just faintly tanned and to the other scar. The one John had received from the thieves a few months ago. Just a line of raised white flesh now.

John sucked in a breath when Sherlock touched it. "Sensitive," John murmured, looking a little sheepish.

Yes.

Sherlock slid his hands back up over the expanse of skin until he came to rest them upon the sides of John's neck and leaned over for a kiss.

This time, without that burn of relief or the hesitation of starting again, the kiss was heated; crashing desperation through both of them as Sherlock let himself fall backwards and John followed him. John's hands started to scrabble at his shirt-

Then that glorious mouth was gone and John was leaning his head against Sherlock's chest, breathing heavily.

"Slowly," John said, sitting back as he straddled Sherlock. "We agreed. We should do it properly."

"We've had sex before," Sherlock muttered, lifting his hands to John's waist and smoothing a thumb over the edge of his jeans.

"Yeah, well…we should still go slowly with that. And…be on the same page," John added.

True, Sherlock supposed. They still had a few things to work out.

"I…I have a shift," John said with a sigh. "In about three hours. I need to eat and sleep and shower…" he frowned down at Sherlock. "I can probably stay for another hour if you want me to-"

Sherlock shook his head. "We did say slowly. If you need to go, go."

John watched him, still hesitant.

Oh, for the love of- "It's not a test," Sherlock snapped. "I have things to do as well."

John nodded. "Okay, well…it should be a quiet night if you feel like popping in."

Possibly.

John clambered off him and picked up his t-shirt, then hunted for his jumper. "Just gonna nip to the loo," he said before disappearing.

Sherlock thudded his head back on the pillow, waiting for his mind to start berating him for this choice.

Oddly, nothing was happening.

Instead, after staring at the ceiling for ninety seconds, Sherlock stood and made his way over to the wardrobe, opened it and stared at the bundle just about hidden on the floor.

When he walked out to the living room, determined to wrap up the case with Lestrade, John was putting his keys into his jacket pocket.

There was a rather long pause as John watched Sherlock hang the coat on the door.

"Bit creased," John said after a moment, his movement starting again, though slowly.

"Hence Mrs Hudson taking it to the dry cleaners," Sherlock said, herding John out the door.

They were half way down the stairs when Sherlock paused and turned to look at John who nearly walked into him.

Is that what John had meant by…

"On the same page?" Sherlock demanded.

"Huh?"

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the banister. "I refuse to be childish about this," he said after a moment. "We are on the same page in everything but the fact that I don't want to say it out loud at the moment."

"It?" John queried, looking flummoxed.

Sherlock glared and slowly comprehension dawned.

"Oh," John breathed. "That…" he smiled. "Good to know. Really good."

Satisfied, Sherlock nodded and walked down a few steps, then rolled his eyes and turned back. "Rule three, no unnecessary drama."

John's smile grew wider. "Well," he said, following Sherlock down. "This will be different."

Indeed.

* * *

Next Chapters:

Good News Travels Fast

How to date your ex


	31. Good News Travels Fast

Good news travels fast

People react to the news that John and Sherlock are back together.

References to the case of "The Red headed league".

* * *

**John**

It was ridiculous how much he felt like a student again.

Sherlock always had a thing for semi-public performances. At the age of twenty, John could still remember being shoved into walls, alcoves and fences so Sherlock could kiss him until he lost feeling in his toes. It was less frantic now but Sherlock had not lost that lack of patience nor the slight smirk he wore when he saw someone glance over at what they were doing.

It would calm down, John thought. But it was so…not new, new was the wrong word for it, but it was exhilarating to be able to touch Sherlock like this again, to feel as if a barrier between them had finally dropped. Quite frankly, while eight years ago John used to flush in embarrassment, he now just kissed back as fiercely as he could.

Though admittedly that possibly had more to do with the fact that he knew Sherlock well enough this time around that he could twist them into a private space and fuck anyone that was thick enough to peer around a corner of an alleyway that would usually be used to mug someone.

"Boring day?" Sherlock asked, pulling away.

"Almost fell asleep," John admitted. "Sarah wasn't exactly pleased with that. I'm on a warning."

Sherlock seemed unmoved. "Surely the sensible thing to do would be to find an interesting job," he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

It was strange how quickly John had gotten used to seeing Sherlock in that coat again.

"We can't all make one up," John said, pushing away from the wall. "Chinese?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Lucky Dragon has a cold going round," he said looking peeved.

"Ah, and getting it elsewhere would be heresy," John sighed.

"Why bother going to a substandard-"

John held up his hands. "Fine. I could cook."

Sherlock threw him a doubtful look. "Your cooking is bland," he said shaking his head.

"Andy and Mike never complained."

"The problem with that argument is that you are using Andy and Mike," Sherlock sighed. "Mike who, from his expanding waist line and rather unimpressive chef wife, suggests he has no discernible palate and Andy who thinks that a fried Mars bar is the best invention ever."

"Your Mum liked it," John muttered.

"My mother liked you."

Touche. "Have you told her yet?"

It never ceased to amuse John when Sherlock looked skittish. It happened so rarely that it was almost an honour to see the scolded school boy expression dance across his features. "She's been on holiday," Sherlock said, looking at the wall. "If I speak to her I will have to listen to a breakdown of two weeks in Paris."

"Food, sun, friends, sex-"

Sherlock winced and shook his head as he started to head out to the main road. "That is highly unfair. Can hardly retaliate, can I?"

"Using my mum? God no, she's hardly the sophisticated, discrete woman that your mother is. That conversation at Harry's hen do will haunt me for years," John shook his head, wishing there was a way to shake the conversation away.

Sherlock's body tensed ever so slightly.

Ah.

Given what had happened at Harry's wedding…

"Would you prefer me not to mention Harry's…you know…the-" John stumbled over the phrasing a little.

"Wedding?" Sherlock shook his head. "It is a foolish reaction given the present situation."

"I hate sand and can't stand the idea of someone lying on top of me," John said with a shrug. "I'm not currently bleeding over a fucking desert, am I?"

Sherlock's head snapped to him, his eyes jumping over John's body.

John nodded once.

"You were…pinned?" Sherlock asked, slowing his stride a little. "By…Mellor. He was on top of you when you were shot."

"Can't even tell you how that happened," John said. All he could remember were sounds and flashes of images that never seemed to collate into any sense. "But my point is it can still be a painful topic, no matter how much things have improved."

Sherlock hummed a little. "Hardly seems to be any point in pretending it didn't happen though," he said firmly.

"Suppose not," John agreed.

He could almost feel Sherlock's gaze as they continued to walk. "Are we actually aiming to go somewhere or are we just walking?" John asked as they turned the corner.

* * *

They ended up grabbing something from the market before it closed and sat on a bench by the Thames. Or rather John sat normally while Sherlock sat on the back, his feet on the seat as he stared out across the river.

"What was it like?" Sherlock asked as the wind pulled at his hair.

"Hmm?"

"When…being shot."

John sat back a little, brushing his shoulder against Sherlock's knee for support. "It was…" he frowned.

"You don't wish to talk about it?"

"No…well, it's hardly the best conversation in the world but it's more…I don't know how to describe it. It…burns. And your brain knows something isn't right and screams to correct it but…I couldn't even work out where the pain was coming from. I looked down and saw…Mellor's leg had been blown off and I thought-"

A hand rested on the back of John's neck steadying him and John watched the boats for a moment as they lifted and sunk on the tide.

"I thought about you," John said quietly. "You were my last thought…I wasn't sure…"

Sherlock's thumb stroked up and down his nape before he bent forward and placed a kiss to the crown of John's head.

"You'd be mine," Sherlock said quietly. "My last thought."

"Nah," John smiled and turned to look up at Sherlock. "Your last thought would be how to set up the fucker that had shot you."

Sherlock smiled. "For you to catch," he said with a haughty tilt of his chin.

John grinned. "Quite right," he said before settling back to eat his noodles.

"You have a shift tonight?" Sherlock asked as he sat back up.

"Yeah, Dommo called in sick," John held up a hand. "Don't even ask about his name, it gave me a headache."

"I assume it's a shortened version of a name that's-"

"He's a cuddly dom apparently," John said, pained, shaking his head.

"How…" Sherlock shook his head. "One does wonder where Alf gets his staff from. They're all morons."

John tipped his head back to glare at Sherlock. "Cheers."

"You're the biggest moron, you stopped seeing me for almost two years."

Impressed, John smiled at him. "That was almost a joke about it," he warned.

Sherlock sniffed as he twisted his noodles around the plastic fork. "Now you're smiling like a moron," he said, lifting the food to his mouth.

John turned his head into Sherlock's thigh. "Missed this," he said softly. "You always could find incredible food."

Sherlock shoved John a little with his leg. "Shut up and eat your food," he scolded.

John laughed.

* * *

**Alf**

"Did you get laid?"

John nearly dropped the cocktail he was mixing. "No, why?" he demanded, looking far too shifty in Alf's opinion.

"Get a chewy at least?" Alf asked, intrigued, following John to the customer.

"Alf? Can I get a-"

"No," Alf ignored Big Will. "Come on, tell me?"

"Do some work," John hissed at him as he took the money.

"I'm your boss, fuck off. Tell me."

Annoying John was so much fun; he could see the annoyance in the way John slammed the till shut and handed over the change.

"Yeah," John said, leaning forward to listen to the next order.

Reaching over, Alf pulled down John's collar to check there were no love bites.

Nothing.

After considering for a moment, he lifted the bottom of John's shirt-

"You stripping him?" Jonah called out. "I'll have his shirt."

"I'll have your balls if you try," John danced away from him, grinning. "Stop being such a lazy shite and make a Woohoo for me."

Laughing, Alf reached up for the Malibu. "You've definitely been doing something," he said. "Finally decided to stop mooning over Sherlock?"

John looked suddenly uncomfortable.

No.

"You…did you-"

"It's…slowly," John seemed to be so focused on making the rum and coke that one would think the fate of the world was resting on it. "And very recent," he added.

* * *

Half an hour from closing, Sherlock turned up.

From the booth with Fab, Alf watched Sherlock let himself into the bar and follow John about. The moment John clocked him, Alf could see a smile appear on John's face as he served.

There was a puzzled frown on Sherlock's face as he inspected John's collar and then leaned back to stare at the bottom of it. His mouth moved and John looked up, catching Alf's eye as he replied.

Sherlock looked over, eyes narrowing.

Then, as if something occurred to him, he took a deep breath and leaned back, talking to John as he served.

Xxx

"Are you going to help?" John was asking as Alf paused around the corner having just finished cashing up.

"Are you going to pay me?" Sherlock asked.

"For your cleaning skills? You must be joking," John muttered.

"As if yours are that much more impressive. You didn't know what colour your kitchen floor was for years."

There was the dull sound of a cloth being thrown.

Just as Alf was about to turn the corner, John asked something that made Alf pause again.

"You're not going to say anything to Alf, are you?"

"About?"

"I dunno," John said slowly. "Anything, I suppose."

"Are you requesting I never speak with him again?" Sherlock enquired, sounding far too polite.

"Sherlock-"

"It isn't important," Sherlock said slowly. "Is it?"

"No," John said, sounding oddly pleased.

There was a pause.

"You're not even going to wipe up that spill next to you, are you?"

"No."

Alf smiled.

* * *

**Mrs Hudson**

"Sherlock?" she called up the stairs, shaking her head. The boy had more letters and it had been days since he had gone down to get them. "I am not your postman and-"

She stopped as she opened the door and blinked at Sherlock and John, both looking decidedly rumpled and red lipped as they sprung apart awkwardly.

John cleared his throat. "Mrs Hudson," he started to say. "How…er…how are you?"

"I…" she looked back and forth between the boys.

Sherlock strode forward and took the letters. "Will that be all, Mrs Hudson? I have pressing matters to attend to-"

Behind him, John looked like he was about to laugh.

"Do you want a tea?" she asked John. Knowing Sherlock, he probably hadn't even offered the poor boy-

"No, he doesn't want tea," Sherlock huffed, almost turning her around. "If we wanted tea we would ask for tea."

"I'm not your maid," she glared at him.

"Nor my chaperone," Sherlock snapped, still trying to guide her to the hall.

"Don't you come near my bloody kitchen again," she warned him. "My table squeaks enough as it is thanks to the two of you-"

John sunk down in horror behind Sherlock who looked vaguely proud.

* * *

John left about an hour later.

"You look happy," Martha said gently when she poked her head around the door later.

He said nothing, but waved at the table. "Put that under the back right leg of that table. It should stop the noise," he offered.

She picked up the little door stop that he'd bought, thin enough to go under the leg. When she turned back to the door she smiled at what was on the coat peg just next to it.

"Don't fuss," came the petulant mutter from the sofa.

So she didn't.

But it did give her something to boast to Mrs Tuner about; at least her boy had a far more interesting love life than her tenants.

* * *

**Mike**

"So you've finally set a date for the wedding then?" Mike asked Paul.

"December," Paul nodded.

"That's not far away," Mike warned. "It'll fly by and before you know it you'll be yelled at for not caring what colour the roses are in the centrepiece."

Paul toasted him. "Cheers, as long as there's something to look forward to." He took a sip and winced. "Andy's gonna be just as unhelpful," he said spotting their friend over Mike's shoulder.

Probably. Andy was useless when it came to weddings.

"Guess what," Andy said, throwing himself into a seat with such ferocity that Mike winced just watching him.

"I've set a date for-"

"Oh fuck that," Andy said, waving his hand. "Alina's had that date in mind for months."

Mike sniggered into his pint glass and then ducked his gaze when Paul glared at him.

"He's best man," Paul added, jabbing a thumb at Mike.

"Of course he is, who else would you ask?" Andy smiled as the bar girl brought his drink over.

"You never want to be a best man?" Mike asked.

"I'll be John and Sherlock's," Andy grinned and then nodded with an eager expression on his face.

"You do realise they'd probably both murder you for being involved in the other's wedding?" Mike asked.

Andy scowled at him. "Don't be so fucking thick," he sighed. "They're back together."

Oh God.

Mike had no idea whether that was a good or a bad thing. From the look on Paul's face, he agreed.

"That'll end well," Paul sighed.

Like a proud parent who had just been told their child wasn't actually that good at singing, Andy's face fell and he glared at them. "John and Sherlock," he said, as if they might have mistaken the two idiots for another couple. "You know, those two who we all thought would be together until the bitter end."

"Yeah," Mike nodded in agreement. "But we were never wholly sure the bitter end wouldn't involve one of them killing the other."

"They were good together," Andy argued.

Mike and Paul exchanged a look. "Andy…" Paul leaned forward. "It was like watching a dodgy episode of Eastenders. They always had some drama."

"They have rules now-"

"Is this like the rules that we gave John the first time around ? You know, when he blew through all of them?" Mike asked, unimpressed.

Andy sat back, clearly disappointed. "So has Alina told you that she wants a fairground theme for this wedding after that first date you took her on?"

Mike nearly laughed at the horrified look in Paul's eyes.

* * *

"So, you and John?"

"Why do people think that will start a conversation?" Sherlock asked, peering into the microscope. "It won't."

"How is it all going?" Mike remedied.

"You disapprove. It's clear from your laces."

Sometimes Mike was sure Sherlock made half his deductions up just to annoy people.

"I…you and he weren't exactly smooth sailing."

"I don't comment on your inane relationship. Do not comment on the dramatics of mine," Sherlock replied calmly.

"And…you've forgiven him for…you know. Not…for saying no-"

"For refusing to marry me, crushing my plans and leaving me?" Sherlock asked in a bored tone. "That was our former relationship. We have agreed not to bring up arguments from that. Unless it's a very dull day."

Mike snorted and watched Sherlock for a moment.

"You look happy," he said finally.

Sherlock lifted his gaze, as if surprised by the observation. "There is a logical answer for that," he said eventually, looking back down. "Because I am."

Mike smiled. "Good. And John?"

A smile crossed Sherlock's face, uncontained and unintentional. "Him too."

Good.

* * *

**Mycroft Holmes**

"-so that's the cabinet that have had a spanking, your four o clock tomorrow has moved to two am and your brother is dating John Watson again. Oh and the caterer for the wedding called and the Salmon farmers are predicting a poor crop so I was thinking I need to change the menu again."

That would be the fourth time then, Mycroft thought with a sigh.

"Excellent," he said blandly.

"You really aren't listening to me at all at the moment, are you?" Anthea asked with a sigh.

Mycroft opened his eyes and glared at the ceiling as his wife-to-be slipped under the covers. "The cabinet have had a scolding, you are being pointed about the fact that I didn't get home until two last night, attempting to be glib about my brother and the Salmon Farmers have not called you; you are just trying to annoy me. Or have decided not to like Salmon this month," he closed his eyes and wriggled to get comfortable. "Both are equally likely and neither are pressing concerns."

"I wasn't joking."

"Then change the menu," Mycroft murmured, turning to kiss her shoulder.

"Oh no, I was trying to annoy you," Anthea said, reaching out to turn off the light. "It was Sherlock and John that I wasn't joking about."

What?

Mycroft sat up in horror.

* * *

"What are you playing at?"

Sherlock peered at him over the test-tubes. "Is my life really that interesting that you have to climb out of bed to scold me? Do consider what that says about your own relationship-"

"He left you."

"Did he?" Sherlock asked, sounding bored. "I do hope you hang him at once for such a horrific crime."

"One would think it was considering the way you reacted last time he did it."

Sherlock looked up.

"Get out," he said eventually. "You are clearly in no mood to listen."

"Sherlock-"

"I am not ending it, you will not be happy with that. Ergo, leave, go home and pay attention to your own relationship."

Mycroft considered his brother before nodding and leaving.

There was a far less stubborn person he could talk to.

* * *

The place was… Mycroft looked at the house from his car, trying to think of an appropriate adjective. Colourful, disgusting.

Filthy?

It was a battle to prepare himself to go in.

Which was probably why Sherlock beat him to it.

Mycroft watched from the car as Sherlock opened the door and nearly collided with John who stumbled at the sight of him.

The pair talked quietly at the door, Sherlock ducking down a little to speak quickly in John's ear.

Sherlock couldn't stay glued to John's side forever. If Mycroft had to walk into that dingy nightclub that John spent most of his days in then so be it-

What he wasn't prepared for was John pulling out of Sherlock's grip, ducking to avoid Sherlock's frantic attempt to pull him back and marching over to Mycroft's car.

When the door pulled open, Mycroft had already moved over to the other side to let John in, reluctantly impressed.

"Do not get in that car," Sherlock was shouting at John.

Completely ignoring him, John got in the car and shut the door.

Seconds later, Sherlock opened the door and bent in. "Get out of the car, John."

"He'll just keep doing it," John said with the tone usually used for annoying two years olds.

Sherlock straightened and then kicked at John. "Move over then."

"Nope," John said, wincing at the kick.

"He is my brother, if you are planning on correcting him I wish to watch. I missed the last time you did it."

"It's fi-"

"Do not say that sentence. We have a rule about that sentence," Sherlock snapped.

Levelling a long look at Sherlock, John moved over and groaned, leaning his head back. "I hate sitting between the two of you," he muttered as Sherlock climbed in.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded as he shut the door. "Are we off to another unimaginative warehouse?"

"Sir?" the driver asked from the front.

Mycroft looked at the pair of them. Both oddly relaxed, both unconcerned.

And, despite the fact that they weren't even touching, completely in unison.

Time was Sherlock wouldn't have let Mycroft near John and John would have looked so worried about Mycroft's opinion that he would already be babbling out an apology.

"Oh get out," he muttered, rubbing his hand across his eyes. "I'm in no mood for the pair of you shooting doe-eyed looks at each other."

"Excellent," Sherlock said, opening the door and climbing out. Mycroft noted that he kept hold of the door though.

Mycroft reached out for John's arm and caught it in an iron grip, all too aware John was patiently allowing it.

"I know," John said, turning his head. "Believe me, I know everything you're about to say."

"You had better," Mycroft murmured letting go of John's arm.

* * *

**Violet**

"Sherlock?" Violet called as she entered the flat. "Sweetheart?"

Nothing.

The mess on the table indicated that Sherlock had left recently, she thought as she started to unload the shopping into the fridge.

"Good morning," a familiar voice said softly.

Stunned, she dropped the milk and stared at John.

"Oh," she gaped at him. "You…you're…" she blinked down at the milk. "I need a cloth-"

"I'll get it," John soothed, dropping down with her. "I didn't mean to startle you-"

"No," she flapped him away. "No, I…" she looked up. "What are you doing here, John?"

He looked older, she thought stupidly as he reached up for a tea-towel draped over a chair and pressed it to the spill. "I…I was just visiting Sherlock," he said, looking down as he mopped the floor.

"At half past eight in the morning?" she asked doubtfully.

"What um…" John looked up. "What has he told you?"

"You're together," Violet sighed, sitting in the nearest chair. "Aren't you?"

John was silent before he nodded slowly. "This week," he said, standing to wring the tee-towel out in the sink. "It's very new," he added.

Violet shook her head sadly.

"You look more upset by it than Mycroft," John said, kneeling back to the spill.

"You broke his heart," Violet murmured.

"I know," John said, not trying to explain. "We've talked…a lot."

She watched him tidy, trying to see the young boy he had once been.

The door downstairs slammed shut and Sherlock rushed up the stairs.

"Mother," he said, standing awkwardly in the door as he held two coffees.

Wearing the old coat of his that John had bought.

"We were out of milk," John said into the uncomfortable quiet. "You must have known," he added with a weak smile.

Sherlock stepped forward as if she were a wild animal, holding the coffee down to John.

"Thanks," John murmured, taking it while still watching Violet.

Sherlock looked happy.

And so, despite her misgivings, Violet smiled. "I suppose this calls for a cup of tea then," she said, standing.

* * *

"You don't approve," John said quietly as Sherlock snapped down the phone at a police officer.

"As long as he's happy," Violet said gently.

"Right," John said as he looked at Sherlock. "And…is he?"

"Yes," Violet nodded. "If there is one thing you have had a gift for, it was making Sherlock smile."

"That's not the same as him being happy," John murmured after a moment.

"He is," Violet finished her tea. "I'm sure I'll see you around, John."

"Yeah," he said, still watching Sherlock. "See you around."

* * *

**Sherlock**

John was in bed when he got back from the case. Changing, Sherlock got into bed with him, cuddling close.

"How was the case?" John asked in a sleepy tone.

"Next door had a job that kept him out of the house," Sherlock yawned. "They tunnelled through into the bank from his cellar. Mr Wilson will give a statement in the morning to give a description."

"You don't sound bothered," John muttered.

"Bank thieves that employ a man just to get him out of the house? It was personal; they had some reason for doing it. Whatever it was at least they were honourable," Sherlock murmured.

As he moved to place his nose in the crook of John's neck in a position that was very quickly becoming typical, he frowned in displeasure when the chain scraped his nose.

A thought bloomed and he tugged at the chain, twisting it around until his fingers closed upon the bullet.

"Didn't work," he murmured.

"No," John agreed. "Works far better as a leash."

"Were you wearing it?" Sherlock asked curiously. "The first time?"

"No, that might have helped," John added.

Smiling at the idea, Sherlock kissed his cheek. "I doubt it," he said, studying the bullet with his fingers. "I'm amazed you didn't throw it away."

"You didn't get rid of the coat," John said softly.

"Sentiment."

"Heaven forbid," John mumbled.


	32. How to date your ex

How to date your ex

**Step One: Do not allow previous encounters to cloud your judgement.**

"You have to go and get her," Harry demanded.

"Why?" John asked standing in the middle of the street and glaring up at the sun. His sister really did have the shittiest timing in the world.

He'd sort of hoped their argument months ago had put an end to these phone calls.

"Well. Someone has to," Harry argued. "I could go. Imagine it, your sister the former alcoholic, walking into a house crammed with heroin users-"

Letting out an annoyed breath, John rubbed a hand over his eyes. "You've been dating Penny for a month. Why are either of us going after her?"

"I'm not dating her," Harry said sounding peeved. "We're friends. Why can't two lesbians just be-"

"Spare me," John groaned. "Send her brother, not yours."

"You're a doctor, a former soldier. You've gone through withdrawal and have experience dealing with addicts. Penny's brother is an accountant. Which would you send?"

"The one that wasn't my brother," John complained. "Where is it?"

"You're such a little hero," Harry muttered.

"You want me to find her or not?"

* * *

Mercifully, Sherlock's foray into heroin hadn't been that extensive while they were dating. Sherlock had cut back on it rather quickly and John had rarely seen the effects of it, not counting that wonderful time the idiot had done speedball at Back door.

Walking through the house, John stared at the glazed eyes and uncaring faces, feeling something sink within him. Some of them looked barely out of school and so disconnected that it felt wrong to walk by them.

The house stunk – it was hardly as if they were having a cleaner come in. The entire place made John want to reach for his phone and call for an ambulance.

It wouldn't do any good. No-one knew better than him that an addict only stopped when they wanted to.

Yet, as he walked past one of the rooms, the sight within caught up to him and made him stop dead.

Sure that he couldn't possibly have seen what he'd just seen, John stepped back a few paces and looked into the room again.

Sherlock.

White hot fury pounded through him and he clenched his jaw, staring at Sherlock, who was sprawled on a sofa, his lips moving slowly while the person next to him nodded.

John closed his eyes.

Then went up the stairs to drag Penny out, kicking and screaming if needs be.

It would be good practise for what he was going to do to Sherlock once she'd been bundled into a taxi.

* * *

Penny was in a foul mood as he stood arguing with her quietly at the front door, away from the thumping music where Sherlock was sprawled.

Tosser.

* * *

He sent Penny to Harry, a tip for the driver for putting up with whatever nonsense he had to listen to as he drove.

When he straightened up, Sherlock was behind him.

They stood on the street, staring.

"It's a case," Sherlock said his eyes narrowing.

"The lengths you'll go to," John snapped. "You're a fucking martyr-"

"I haven't taken anything," Sherlock dismissed, screwing up his nose at the idea. "If I was using again, believe me, I wouldn't be using substandard product and writhing around in months of dirt-"

"That's your reason? That's why?" John demanded, folding his arms.

"You made the rule," Sherlock said, his tone dropping dangerously. "What happened in our last relationship-"

"You were in a fucking drugs den, looking as fucked out as the rest of them. This is hardly me clinging on to the past; it was ten minutes ago."

"And I have explained," Sherlock snapped back. "You were not meant to see it-"

"So you're apologising for getting caught?"

"In case it had escaped your attention, I am not apologising for anything," Sherlock said, punctuating his sentence with a furious jab of his hand.

John leaned back against the lamppost, trying to pull himself together, trying to sort it all out in his head as he closed his eyes.

"You could have told me that was what you were doing," he said slowly.

"I anticipated this reaction," Sherlock replied in a flat voice.

John nodded and opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. "I haven't seen you like that for so long," he said quietly. "And God…realistically, that was you again not two years ago, wasn't it?"

Sherlock's expression softened a little as he nodded.

John shook his head and stared up at the sky "Tell me next time," he said quietly.

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his forehead against John's. "Tell me where you're going next time," he said equally quiet. "It was a rather unpleasant reminder of our past for me as well."

John nodded. "Fucking Harry," he muttered.

"Indeed."

* * *

**Step 2: Respect all boundaries**

"You're sure you're okay with it?"

Sherlock made an annoyed noise. "I would far prefer you to just walk into the flat with the key I gave you for that purpose than continue these fruitless phone conversations."

John sighed. "Do you want me to not drink? I'll understand if-"

There was a long groan. "John, I have seen you drunk. I have seen you so drunk that you once offered to use a hair brush as a dildo. I have known you to write your phone number on your arm and wave it around. I have taken you to hospital when you got into a fight while drunk. I have dealt with every permutation imaginable. It is not an empty offer. Getting home to yours will be a pain on the tube whereas I am on the Bakerloo line. Stop annoying me and do as I say."

"You're the boss," John said, trying not to smile.

"I am well aware of that."

* * *

Hmm, stairs.

Stairs were tricky.

Having had years of experience mixing drink and stairs, John folded his arms as he swayed in front of the obstacle, trying to work out the best way forward.

Crawling? Left foot first? Right foot first? Sliding up the wall?

Left foot first sounded good.

The wobble half way up the stairs suggested that next time maybe hugging the wall might be a good idea.

When he got into the flat, Sherlock was sitting the table, the screen switching to the desktop as John walked in.

"I take it the night went well?"

John nodded. "Mike passed out. We're old," he decided as he leaned back against the wall to keep himself upright.

"Maybe your alcohol tolerance has just decreased to normal standards," Sherlock replied absently, fingers tracing the keys.

"I was a soldier," John announced, pushing off the wall. "I still have fantastic tolerance."

"The slurring would beg to differ."

"I'll prove it," John decided as he stood by the table. He lowered himself to his knees in front of Sherlock and reached out-

Sherlock's hand snapped around his wrist.

"You don't have to do it back," John said frankly. "But I'm actually pretty good at it now."

Something strange flickered in Sherlock's eyes and the grip around John's wrist remained solid. "You are drunk," Sherlock said after a moment's pause. "We agreed to go slowly."

"I can go slowly," John promised. "Twenty minutes slow enough?"

A frown was starting to form between Sherlock's eyebrows. "No," he said eventually. "The case. I told you, I didn't want distractions."

Fair enough. With a nod, John rocked back on his heels and then studied the table for a good way to get up. Sherlock's hand released him and John could almost feel the gaze that lingered.

"I don't like stairs," John announced once he was back on his feet. "Two sets is stupid."

Sherlock closed his eyes and then sighed, standing. "Come," he said haughtily as he grabbed John's other wrist this time and tugged him into the bedroom.

"I thought-"

"We have slept in the same bed more often than not in the past month." Sherlock closed the door behind him and strode over to snap the curtains shut. "Why would it change now?"

"I'm drunk."

"And?"

John shrugged. "That was it," he said sincerely. "Drunk." The word was a funny sounding one.

The resulting sigh was long and pained.

* * *

"Go back to sleep," came a gentle voice.

John couldn't even remember where he was let alone why he had woken up. The body behind him was warm and lulling.

"I like sheets," John told him.

A hand stroked through his hair until his eyes closed once more.

* * *

The next morning Sherlock was furious.

"I asked you," John groaned, his head in his hands as he sat at the table. His apology cup of coffee for Sherlock was still on the side as Sherlock strode around the flat.

"For?"

"If it was okay to stay. I did tell you-"

When he looked over at Sherlock and risked the swirling feeling as he moved his head, Sherlock was staring at him.

"I have a case," Sherlock announced, suddenly sounding awkward. "Go home and shower, then give me a text if you're free."

John sighed and nodded, nowhere near the right mood to have a row with him.

* * *

**Step 3: Have discussions about sex in a comfortable place.**

Having recovered slightly, John made his way to the address Sherlock had texted him. Embarrassingly, he was so focused on getting to the right place that it was only when he opened the rather non-descript door and made his way down the steps that he realised from the sudden moan where he was.

Stopping dead he thumbed for Sherlock's number and called.

"I am busy-

"A sex club?" John demanded.

There was a pause. "John I am likely two minutes from where you are. Just get in."

With that the call was ended.

Shaking his head, John made his way down the rest of the steps and opened the second door.

There was a reception.

It nearly made him laugh.

"Would you be Sherlock Holmes' assistant?"

"Partner," John corrected with a narrowed gaze. "Where is he?"

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock sat on the floor of what looked like an interrogation room going by the chains hanging from the ceiling and the bolts in the walls and floor. It was only knowing what the place was that made John glance at the cupboard.

Fuck knew what was in there, he thought with a grimace back at the chains.

"The case," Sherlock said with a sudden shake, as if returning himself to reality. "Missing persons."

"The victim came here?"

Sherlock's mouth formed an odd smile. "The man accused with the kidnap or murder," he clarified. "A professional submissive, if you can believe such a thing."

"He worked here?"

"Worked out of here during the week. Strange limits," Sherlock added, tapping his finger against his knee.

With a glance around, John sighed and sat down next to Sherlock. "Does being here help you picture it?"

"It answers some questions." Sherlock stood suddenly, leaving John on the floor alone. "He's a complete idiot," Sherlock added as he reached for one of the chains and traced the links with a single finger.

"Why?"

"Bending to the will of others, doing anything to make someone else happy or keep them content."

"Doesn't have to be that," John said. "Power. Coping. Having something tangible to fight against."

Sherlock didn't turn around. "Interesting observation," he said eventually. "This room was used predominantly by the accused. I need to test something."

John waited.

"Using you," Sherlock specified, turning this time.

"In those?" John asked, pointing at the chains.

A nod.

"No."

"Just like that?" Sherlock asked, his face impassive.

"Just like that." John let out an annoyed breath. "You wouldn't go near me last night because I was drunk and you had a case. I'm not going near this now because it's just a case-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be a moron," he sighed. "All I want to do is test the length of the chains. It will confirm an injury if it's been hooked at a certain point often."

John slid his gaze past Sherlock and to the dangling chains. "No."

"A man's life is at stake."

Sherlock could be such a tosser at times. With a furious glare, John raised himself up and off the ground then made his way over.

"You keep me in here longer than it takes for you to make your observations and we are going to have a row," John warned as Sherlock snapped the first cuff around John's wrist.

"Noted."

The chains were lifted and John winced as his shoulder protested. Soon enough his hands were high above his head and he could feel the slight burn of stretching in his arms.

Open. Vulnerable

_Endure it. Feel it. Fight it._

John stared at the wall opposite as he ruthlessly slammed the threatening memories down.

They had no place here.

The chains holding up his left shoulder dropped a little, the angle changing and John almost sighed with relief.

"Had he been shot too?" he gritted out.

"No. And it was his other shoulder but I can use the marks to adjust this one." Sherlock sounded very far away. "Is it easier on your shoulder now?"

John nodded. "Much."

There was a thoughtful hum from Sherlock. "If someone had dislocated their shoulder, would it be useful to have this change?"

John wriggled slightly, testing. "It's less likely to pop it out," he said eventually. "Which would be a mood killer."

"May I?"

John turned his head, trying to see what it was Sherlock was asking for and flinched at the unexpected touch to his injured shoulder. Sherlock's hands traced both shoulder blades as if feeling the difference in tension.

"Relax," Sherlock murmured. "The accused would have been comfortable."

"I'm chained up," John snapped. "It's not comfortable or relaxing."

"You have been in bondage before," Sherlock pointed out, his thumbs almost massaging John's shoulders now which felt fucking fantastic. "You were comfortable with it then."

"In bed. With you."

"Nowhere else?"

"What?" John tried to turn his head to see Sherlock's face. "No."

It wasn't a lie, he comforted himself. It was Sherlock phrasing the question poorly.

There was a bump against his back and it took almost a minute for John to realise Sherlock was leaning his forehead against John's back. Seconds after that, Sherlock's hand trailed up and he unlocked John from the cuffs.

Finally.

Moving away from them, John turned and faced Sherlock, folding his arms. "Get everything?"

Sherlock nodded. "I believe I have."

* * *

**Step 4: Pay attention.**

Sherlock solved the case the moment Lestrade had showed him into the holding cells and made what was actually an insightful comment.

"Same height as the vic but no defensive wounds or anything. They'd have been evenly matched. Still can't figure out how he did it though. It's on camera – St Clair is in the window looking terrified. We arrive twenty minutes later and all that's left of him are a pair of clothes and this Hugh Bone."

"Bone?" Sherlock asked, wincing at the name.

"Fitting really, given that he's a hair's breadth away from being hauled up for prostitution. But fuck knows what he did with the body. Must have weighed as much as he does too."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose.

God almighty, how could the man be that thick?

* * *

The only reason he'd gone to the den was to confirm Lascar's role in this. He ran the club that 'Hugh Bone' worked out of and was a lover of heroin.

"You gotta let people make a choice," Lascar slurred. "Even if you think it's thick. Their decision, right?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to sneer. If Neville St Clair was so desperate to keep his 'working week' from his wife and sons that he was willing to go to prison and leave his family without answers then perhaps they should bring back the noose and be done with it. Stupidity like that really was-

There was a shriek from upstairs.

Satisfied that he had everything he was likely to have from Lascar, Sherlock stood and paused in the doorway.

John.

It was almost humorous. The woman in his grasp was trying to get back up the stairs and he was blocking her way with that unmovable expression that Sherlock both loved and loathed.

"You're so fucking hypocritical," the woman shrieked at him. "Harry told me how you used to cope with things. At least I have some self-respect."

John looked unimpressed.

A friend of Harry's then? Sherlock stepped so his view was hidden by the stairs, curious.

_How y__ou used to cope with things._

What did that mean?

"You are getting in that taxi," John said calmly.

"Fuck you," the woman said, then suddenly started to giggle. "You'd like that though, right."

Ah. John's…promiscuous year.

Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure how that sat with him. On one hand John had been single, free to do what he wanted and had been in a committed relationship for most of his sexually active years. It was hardly surprising.

But part of him still chaffed at the idea. Someone else had been inside John, someone else had John's lips around their cock-

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall. Foolish to taunt himself thus, he thought.

"In the taxi," John said, his voice like steel.

"Oh honey. Bitches don't give orders."

Sherlock waited for John to laugh.

Silence.

"She told me everything," the woman purred. "Poor little John. Too thick to realise he was being whored out to avoid losing his job."

Sherlock's mind skidded to a halt.

"No wonder my sister likes you," John said in an icy voice that didn't sound like him at all. "You both love the fucking drama. Get in the taxi or I will throw you in there."

They moved out into the front.

Harry.

* * *

The reunion night was fortuitous.

"Keep him occupied and text me when he leaves," Sherlock ordered Andy.

"Gonna light candles around the flat and sprinkle rose petals on the floor?" Andy asked mockingly.

Sherlock shook his head. "Case," he said dismissively. "Might need your insight later."

Andy nodded, then frowned. "When you say later you don't mean tonight, right?"

As if any of them would be of any use.

* * *

"What did John do in the army?"

Harry Watson stared at him.

"Fuck off," she hissed as she started to shut the door.

Absolutely not. Sherlock stuck his foot out to avoid the door being slammed shut and shouldered his way in.

"I don't want you in here-"

"Why is your friend shouting out that John was manipulated into having sex?" Sherlock snapped, turning to her.

Harry closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. A Watson trait that Sherlock disliked the harpy using.

That was John's 'trying to calm down' stance.

"John thinks I'm being ridiculous."

"Tell me and I'll pass judgment," Sherlock said, sitting in one of the chairs.

Harry eyed him up and folded her arms. "You should ask my brother."

"Your brother should be telling me," Sherlock added. "We're both as bad as each other. Tell me."

Harry seemed to mull it over and then sat in the opposite chair. "When you and John broke up he was…he wanted to punish himself. Fights…god the week that you two ended things John was in three fights in four days."

That sounded nothing like John. Uncomfortable with the idea, Sherlock looked away.

"He made a joke once that he'd tried to have sex and it had been bad. Really bad. He was spoiling for fights in the army. He wanted the dangerous missions…Bill Murray thought he was on a self-destruct mission called me god knows how many times. Idiot tried to talk to John and John just blanked him for a few months."

"Fighting and being reckless hardly translates to being manipulated," Sherlock forced himself to say.

"They suddenly stopped," Harry said looking pale. "Instantly. I thought he'd had a wakeup call. Then we were talking about a friend…she'd been assaulted at a party and John-"

"Reacted?"

"Not in the way he would have, years ago," Harry said slowly. "He said that she knew what the party was. She went there. She agreed to most of it, what was her problem?"

That was not John.

Something terrifying started to flutter in Sherlock's chest.

"We argued when he came back. We were getting on fine and then…he had a nightmare. He has them," Harry said quickly when Sherlock opened his mouth. "Usually about getting shot but this one…he was asking someone to stop."

No.

"And when I asked him we had a fight. A huge one. 'Stress relief' he calls it. Says he was given the choice to work off the frustrated energy or leave the army. For whatever reason, John refuses to see it for what it was." Harry shook her head. "And I know my brother and you were a bit…kinky," she said, pulling a face at the idea. "My mate pulled out a pair of handcuffs and John's face drained of colour."

The knowledge was failing to be processed.

It had been obvious that John had been depressed once he'd left the army, exhausted, spent, but Sherlock had assumed….

What if John had been suffering during it?

The idea had honestly never occurred to Sherlock before. John had loved the army, at times he had loved it more than their relationship…

John had been flat when they had first met again. He'd encouraged Victor to shoot.

"Do you have proof?" Sherlock said, slightly confused by the uncertainty in his own thought process.

Harry's mouth firmed. "I know my brother. There is no way he would have said that about my friend unless he was trying to convince himself of something."

John refused to see that he was a victim.

"Names?"

"Just one, it won't help," Harry said with a shrug. "Charlie."

* * *

Charlie.

Not enough to go on.

John's military records however were another story. Mycroft had sent them over without question.

It was almost useful having your family suspicious of your partner.

Going through them this time with a clear head was far more interesting. John had flown through the army. Superiors had encouraged him, colleagues admired him and those he taught had been in awe of him.

There.

September to December the year they had broken up. Cautions, concerns, warnings. Then January to March was sparse.

Too sparse.

* * *

The front door closed rather pathetically just as a message popped up in his inbox.

John drunk had always encountered difficulty with the stairs. If he made it up in the next five minutes Sherlock would be impressed.

_Investigation._

_Charles Taylor._

_Mercenary._

_Soldiers in exchange for weapons. Prostitution._

_Unknown source within the military._

_Four soldiers so far._

Sherlock closed his eyes.

How was John ignoring this?

The door opened and Sherlock minimised the email.

"I take it the night went well?" he asked.

Go to bed, he thought staring at the screen.

John nodded. "Mike passed out. We're old."

_Manipulated into sex._

Not old enough apparently.

"Maybe your alcohol tolerance has just decreased to normal standards," Sherlock replied absently, trying to erase the pictures that were threatening.

How bad had it been? John was managing to think of the sessions as consensual apparently, so not that bad.

"I was a soldier," John announced, pushing off the wall. "I still have fantastic tolerance."

"The slurring would beg to differ." Go to bed, go to bed.

"I'll prove it."

No. Sherlock snapped his attention to John as his partner dropped to his knees and reached for his belt.

God no.

He reached out for John's wrist, determined to stop this before it went any further.

"You don't have to do it back," John said frankly, as if that would be the problem. "But I'm actually pretty good at it now."

The words made him want to scream.

You were, he wanted to say. You were good at it. You enjoyed it.

Yet here he was, on his knees as if he'd been trained to it. As if he should be nothing more than some wank aid.

"You are drunk," Sherlock said slowly. "We agreed to go slowly."

And they had been, he realised. Very slowly.

Too slowly for them.

"I can go slowly," John promised. "Twenty minutes slow enough?"

A time frame? They'd played games before but this was like negotiating a building contract rather than having sex. Like Sherlock was meant to give orders and John was meant to-

No.

"The case. I told you, I didn't want distractions," Sherlock said.

It was true enough. Just not the case John thought it was.

John nodded, accepting that he wasn't needed and that made Sherlock's heart sink even more.

How had he missed this?

"I don't like stairs," John announced once he was back on his feet. "Two sets is stupid."

Two?

There were no stairs to Sherlock's bedr-

Oh.

The logic was terrifying. I don't want your mouth and so I don't require you in my bed.

Had he implied that? At all?

"Come," Sherlock said as he grabbed John's other wrist this time and tugged him into the bedroom. It was painful to look at him.

"I thought-"

"We have slept in the same bed more often than not in the past month." Sherlock closed the door behind him and strode over to snap the curtains shut. "Why would it change now?"

Why?

"I'm drunk."

"And?"

John shrugged. "That was it," he said sincerely. "Drunk."

To be taken advantage of?

Had John been drunk when he had gone to Taylor?

Never before had Sherlock not wanted to know something.

* * *

It was to be expected he supposed. John started thrashing in bed at about four in the morning and Sherlock made his way into the bedroom.

He'd seen John at the end of a nightmare before, though John had no recollection the next morning. He'd been wriggling, frantic to escape, pleading for help, for his leg, for water.

This was like watching a drowning man. John thrashed around, the duvet catching him and adding to the delusion that he was caught and somewhere else.

"John."

It made no difference.

"John," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice low and calm as he reached out to John's face-

John flinched and rolled away from the touch.

Sherlock closed his eyes and knelt down by the bed.

Years and years ago he had laid in bed with John, staring down at his friend and trying to work out whether he should let John go or progress their relationship further. Twice he had done it and twice he had known it was selfish.

If he had walked away…

He would have been heartbroken.

Why had he thought John would be any different?

"Idiot," Sherlock whispered, not at all sure whether he was referring to himself or to John. "You utter…" he reached up and pressed a kiss to John's forehead.

The gesture seemed to relax John and he made an odd noise. When Sherlock pulled back John's eyes were open but hazed with sleep.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock encouraged, stroking his hair.

"Like sheets," John mumbled.

"Mm," Sherlock said, not at all sure what else to say.

* * *

The statements made it even worse.

Three had been taken so far in the internal investigation. Tales of chains and bondage. Of twisted games of humiliation and endurance. Stress positions while giving fellatio, a gun to the head to dissuade from orgasm.

How did John think this was acceptable?

* * *

The sex club was quiet; only a few customers bothered coming in when it was this early in the day.

The room that Neville St Clair had used as Hugh Bone had used was plain enough. A glance at the chains revealed what Sherlock has suspected – that typically they were hung at a different level due to his shoulder.

Still, it was enough to give him an idea to test.

And, if it meant that the idiot currently languishing in prison for his own murder was off the streets for another few hours then all the better, really.

* * *

Years ago Sherlock would have been purring with content at the sight before him.

John Watson, hands above his head, taut and strained as his body was spread before Sherlock. His t-shirt was riding high and giving a delightful glimpse of warm skin underneath that, under any other circumstances, Sherlock would be tracing with his tongue.

But John was rigid in the chains. Absolutely on edge like a tortured animal waiting for the next beating.

Sherlock dropped the chain slightly to compensate and relax its pull on John's wounded shoulder.

"Had he been shot too?" John asked between gritted teeth.

John wasn't even close to relaxing. Despite the strain on his shoulder lessening, despite Sherlock's presence.

"No. And it was his other shoulder but I can use the marks to adjust this one," Sherlock said absently. "Is it easier on your shoulder now?"

John nodded. "Much."

You wouldn't know from his body language.

"If someone had dislocated their shoulder, would it be useful to have this change?" Sherlock asked, watching intently.

Perhaps a normal conversation might help.

John wriggled slightly, testing. "It's less likely to pop it out," he said eventually. "Which would be a mood killer."

Still tense.

"May I?"

John turned his head ever so slightly, tensing even further if that were possible.

It hurt that he flinched when Sherlock touched his shoulder. The muscles and scar tissue were tight, a knotted mass of tension.

The other shoulder was almost as bad.

They'd been sleeping together for over a month now. Exchanging sweet kisses and gentle caresses but…it had all been so timid and slow.

John had to have back ache from his shifts at the club. The constant strain would do him no good.

"Relax," Sherlock murmured. "The accused would have been comfortable."

"I'm chained up," John snapped. "It's not comfortable or relaxing."

He wasn't going to relax, Sherlock realised. John wasn't even going to come close to it.

"You have been in bondage before," Sherlock pointed out, digging his thumbs into John's back. He would have to do this in bed properly at some point. "You were comfortable with it then."

"In bed. With you," John argued.

"Nowhere else?"

"What?" John tried to turn his head to see Sherlock's face. "No."

Clever.

John had been in bondage with others. Horrific bondage that had been designed to humiliate.

John simply hadn't been comfortable.

Idiot.

Absolute and complete idiot.

Frustrated and feeling oddly hollow, Sherlock leaned his head forward as he tried to work out what to do next.

Did he tell John that he knew?

Sherlock opened his eyes as he breathed John in.

It was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

* * *

Author's Note: The case used here was "A case of identity" from ACD's stories.

Next Chapter: Never Bored.


	33. Never Bored

Never Bored

"He confessed to his own murder?" John asked again, baffled.

Sherlock nodded, every inch of him clearly showing his opinion on the matter.

Pulling a face, John took a swig from his beer bottle. They sat in his pathetic little square cement garden that barely allowed them both to sit at the cheap plastic table in the evening sun.

"Why?" John asked as he tried to sort it out in his head.

"Evidently telling the person you love that you have an unusual sexual history isn't appealing."

Too right. John nodded absently. "But still…they thought he was dead."

Sherlock said nothing.

"You all right?" John asked as he placed the bottle back onto the table. "Usually you're desperate to point out how idiotic people are."

Sherlock clicked his tongue and settled into the chair. "People do the strangest things for the oddest reasons," he said finally, eyes fixed upon John. "A man works out he can make a fortune bending over to the whims of the rich and spreading his legs. Enough to send his children to a private school, to keep his wife in the latest fashions. And he enjoys it."

"It was prostitution," John sighed. "He was paid."

"Payment isn't only defined by the exchange of legal tender."

John stared at him. "I honestly don't think I've ever heard that phrase come up when it wasn't a Scottish person demanding I take Scottish sterling," John said eventually with a grin.

"You disapprove of prostitution?"

John paused as he reached for the bottle again. "Never used one," he said with some confusion. "You?"

Sherlock's gaze was…odd. Almost as hard as steel and yet…there was something else… Sensing something, John settled back in his seat and stared at Sherlock.

Who stared back.

Waiting.

What the hell was this about? Sherlock had been acting odd for a few days now.

"Do you…want to ask me something?" John asked.

Sherlock's gaze didn't shift; it was almost as if John hadn't spoken. Then, like a clockwork toy suddenly wound up, Sherlock moved again and drummed his fingers lazily on the plastic table.

"Who is Charlie Taylor?"

John felt his jaw dropped ever so slightly "How-"

"Answer the question," Sherlock snapped.

Ordered.

John could feel his temper rising as he glared. "He…" the lie of acquaintance was ready to be used but if Sherlock was asking it probably meant he already knew the answer. "Someone I fucked," John replied bluntly. "A mercenary."

"You fucked him or he fucked you?"

"Don't be precious about it," John snapped. "We had sex, what does it matter? You and I weren't together-"

"So you decided to attend sex parties?"

The fury turned white hot.

"You've researched it?" John asked in disbelief. "You looked into- Jesus, Sherlock, we weren't together. I could have shagged a nine headed alien for all the bearing it had on our relationship-"

"I don't give a damn about that," Sherlock sneered. "I give a damn about the level of consent."

It took John almost ten seconds to absorb that and the rather familiar wording. "Oh God," he said, slumping back in the seat. "Of the things to talk to Harry about," he complained, rubbing at his forehead.

"They threatened your job-"

"They gave me a way of dealing with my anger management issues," John corrected as he rubbed his temple with his thumb and forefinger.

"Ah," Sherlock said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Yes, you're right. There was an article last month about how being tied up with a gun to your head while you're fucked helps those with control issues."

What?

John blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

A frown marred Sherlock's forehead. "I take it your sessions never got to that point?"

_Dazed, wrists aching and the distant buzz of laughter._

_Cold metal at his temple._

"_Try to have a bit of control-"_

Shaking the haze away, John shook his head. "Once," he said shifting. "I told them to fuck right off with that. Last time I ever went…how the hell do you know that?" he asked. "I barely remember it."

Sherlock's gaze narrowed then his entire face smoothed in rage. "Drugs," he spat.

John bit his tongue.

"They drugged you-"

"I was drunk," John muttered, "I…I really don't want to talk about this. It was stupid and ill-advised and I was fucking lucky not to get anything from them. I went there when I needed it and I left when it got…too much. People have made equally stupid decisions," he added pointedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Every single time you are sexually assaulted you refuse to believe drugs are involved," he muttered.

"Every single…I'm not being molested every other day-" John cut himself off. "In fact, I've never been-"

"Adam."

John groaned. "Seriously? We're never going to agree-"

"I tested the coffee."

John snapped his gaze to Sherlock. "You did what?"

"Tested it. I was right about that and I am right about this."

How dare he?

"I told you to leave it alone," John said quietly. "You didn't trust me to-"

"I didn't trust him," Sherlock corrected looking utterly unrepentant.

"Nor did you feel the need to tell me?" John breathed. "I saw him, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and you didn't think to tell me-"

"It is in a past relationship," Sherlock said, shifting. "We have rules."

"No," John said, leaning over the table. "You damn well tell me when someone drugs me to-"

"Then you should damn well tell me the reason you flinch at the sight of handcuffs and are terrified of being chained up," Sherlock snarled at him.

John stared at him. "I am not yours to save," he snarled.

Sherlock's chin jutted out. "Because you do not wish to be mine or because I shouldn't want to save you?"

"Because I am not a victim."

"No," Sherlock said with a smirk. "No, you never are. Your mother throws a plate at your head and she's merely drunk. Your sister gets you into a fight and it's merely a funny story months later. You get shot and it's merely your failure. You are forced into sex-"

John tilted his head back in frustration. "I was not forced into-"

"Then explain the logic. You were getting into fights. You then were told to go to these parties. Your record is suddenly sparse and wonderful."

"It was…" John pressed his lips together. "Mutually beneficial."

"Like prostitution?" Sherlock enquired.

"What did you just say to me?" John breathed.

Sherlock didn't back down. "The other four soldiers who were put in your position saw it as a lack of choice. As something they were forced into. You wish to see it as mutually beneficial then I suggest you consider exactly what currency they were paying you with-"

John stood up and stared down at Sherlock who watched him with a heavy gaze as he continued. "Because the investigation implies that your pimp was getting weapons for it."

John shook his head. "You're wrong," he breathed. "You've never even met-"

Sherlock's head whipped up with sudden interest. "You knew the man that sent you," he murmured. "You talked to him, trusted him…did he make it sound like a good idea?" Sherlock asked. "The others never saw him-"

"Then maybe mine isn't connected to theirs."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please tell me you're not that much of an idiot. I'm surely not dating someone that thick."

"At the moment, you're not."

Sherlock flinched. "Ah, have the pretty words from a few weeks ago abandoned you so quickly? You're hardly letting me reach out to you right now."

John laughed at him in disbelief. "You are telling me that a man I look up to sent me off to be fucked for weapons," he said slowly. "You have no idea what you're talking about. I left when I wanted-"

"Well perhaps you had paid for a crate of rifles," Sherlock quipped.

"Go to hell," John yelled.

"I'm relatively sure this hovel fits the bill," Sherlock replied smoothly as he stood. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed a memory stick onto the plastic table. "I expect something to go with your apology when you turn up tomorrow, begging for yet another chance. Coffee, gold, an interesting case. They tend to make me more amenable to grovelling."

John stared at the stick as Sherlock shouldered past and slammed the back door behind him.

* * *

John turned the memory stick over and over as he sat inside.

"That was one almighty row you had earlier," Ronnie said as she sat down.

"Mm."

"Alf ever tell you how we met?"

John blinked and looked over at his flatmate, the one who had come forward with a room when Alf has asked around for John. "Really not in the mood-"

"I was raped."

Oh.

John looked down, not really sure what to say. "Look, I…what we were saying earlier…sorry if that raised any…but he's talking shit-"

"Sounds dramatic, doesn't it?" Ronnie asked. "Like it has to be violent or some evil relative coming in to your room at night. And that's terrible but…there are other kinds, John. The kind where you wouldn't have sex unless that person wasn't making the choice for you, taking away your choice to consent."

"I did choose to consent."

Ronnie nodded. "Did you ever say no?"

John shook his head.

"Did you ever want to?"

He tapped the memory stick on the table, letting it slide up his fingers before turning it onto the other end and repeating the process. Over and over again.

"People aren't mind readers," John said eventually.

"Why didn't you say it?" Ronnie asked, wrapping her arms around her knees.

John kept tapping the memory stick.

"Because anything was better than missing him," John said eventually.

"And if you were seeing a girl who was still cut up over her ex, who wanted to forget but still wasn't sure about it, who wanted to try having sex, would you do it?"

Reluctant to concede the point, John kept his mouth shut.

"Would you?"

"No," John sighed, dropping the stick. "It would be taking advantage."

Ronnie tilted her head.

"I am so sick of feeling…" John tipped his head back. "Every time I'm the victim and he fucking swoops in like some arsehole of a knight to rescue me."

"You want him to not swoop?" Ronnie asked. "To not care?"

"No-"

"Then what?"

John groaned at the ceiling. "God help me I'm glad I'm not dating a woman," he said, looking back at her. "You've got worse logic than him."

Ronnie glared at him. "You'd be so lucky," she said, rolling her eyes as she stood.

"Did…was there someone for you?" John asked, watching her.

"No." She shrugged. "Well…Alf told me that sex shouldn't be something I should be trying to find ways to avoid."

John sighed. "Yeah," he said sighing. "I suppose same goes for dreading it," he added.

Ronnie nodded. "And for feeling as if you have to do it. My ex thought shoving my hands down his trousers was the best foreplay ever."

John frowned.

"And now you're trying to work out if you've ever done that to someone," she said with an amused grin.

"Mm," John said, nodding. "Relatively sure I haven't."

Ronnie shook her head. "Tea?" she asked.

John nodded.

* * *

Armed with his apology present, John approached Baker Street.

It looked like a bomb had ripped through it.

"Shit," he breathed, staring in horror.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

John raced up the stairs, across the hall and then stopped dead.

Mycroft.

And Sherlock.

With a violin.

It was so tempting to turn around and go back downstairs. Especially seeing how close Sherlock's fingers were to the strings.

Sherlock was not kind to the violin when Mycroft was about.

"My," Mycroft said in a far too pleasant tone of voice. "Grovelling already?"

John darted a glance to Sherlock who stared at the plastic bag. "You're all right?" John asked.

Sherlock blinked at him and then looked at the boarded up window. "Gas leak," he said dismissively as he plucked at the violin. "And can't," he said to Mycroft in the same disinterested tone then forced the violin to make an unpleasant noise.

"Can't?" Mycroft asked doubtfully. Sensing the tone, John sighed and walked over to the boards over the windows.

Jesus, there must have been some force, he thought studying it.

"You can make enquiries about his dalliances yet can't complete a task of national importance," Mycroft said in a polite tone.

Sherlock shook his head in mock sorrow as John paused and shook his head in annoyance. "Dalliance?" he asked, turning.

"I was under the impression you became terribly defensive when one called it prostitution," Mycroft almost purred with false concern.

Sherlock turned his head and added a look of polite curiosity.

God he hated being on the wrong side of both of the Holmes brothers. Not really knowing what to say, John turned back to the windows, hoping Mycroft would fuck off soon.

"See Sherlock? At least John sees the sense in calling an end to his own stupidity," Mycroft said. "You are merely being stubborn. It's an interesting case-"

"If you're so keen why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I can't possibly be away from the office for that amount of time, not with the Korean election-"

"Is that the code name for keeping Anthea happy these days?" Sherlock asked as he plucked.

John blinked. "You're still together?" he asked, turning back.

"Engaged," Sherlock informed him in a bored tone of voice. "And she had appeared to be vaguely intelligent."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Surely we aren't implying that only the intelligent ones turn us down? John is hardly the best example to use if that's the case."

Wincing, John turned to glare at Mycroft in disbelief. A glance at Sherlock showed only pained amusement, as if the insult were simply an old, boring joke now.

"What's the case?" John asked, needing something to fill the silence.

After a long staring competition, Mycroft stood and held out a file to John. "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant. Found dead on the tracks at Battersea station this morning with his head smashed in."

John accepted the file with a glance at Sherlock who was still occupying himself with the violin. "Jumped in front of a train?" he asked.

"That would be the logical assumption," Mycroft agreed.

"But?" John said, looking up at him as he sat on the edge of the arm of the sofa.

Mycroft smiled. "But?"

"You hate leg work. You'd hardly have climbed the stairs if it were just an accident," John replied.

Sherlock snorted in amusement.

With a filthy look at Sherlock, Mycroft lifted his chin. "The MOD is working on a new missile defence system, the Bruce Partington programme it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick-"

John sighed as he flipped through the file. "That wasn't very clever," he said.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock smirk in amusement as he rosined the bow.

"It's not the only copy," Mycroft said with a small sneer. "But it is secret. And missing."

"Top secret?" John asked.

"Very," Mycroft confirmed. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands," he said, turning and dismissing John as he looked to Sherlock again. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared as if miles away.

"And don't let your petty domestic get in the way," Mycroft added. "It's hardly that important."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft gathered his coat. "John," he said in acknowledgement. "Your input may be valid. You seem to be the expert on exchanging goods."

John smiled at him. "Speaking of, give my regards to Anthea."

The smile turned to a scowl.

Interesting, John thought with some amusement as Mycroft walked out.

Then he was left with Sherlock.

In silence.

Slowly, he dug into the bag, plucked out the book and tossed it onto Sherlock's lap.

_The greatest unsolved crimes._

"It was the closest I could manage without actually committing a crime," John said quietly.

Sherlock stared down at it. "I don't want that," he said, picking it up and tossing it onto the chair opposite him that Mycroft had been sitting in. "I want the name."

"Name?" John asked blankly.

Sherlock turned his head to glare at him.

"Ah, that name," John sighed as he stepped over. Picking the book up he sat opposite Sherlock who held the bow vertical, singing it absently like a lord with a cane.

"Yes."

John sighed. "I…I should have told you," he admitted. "I guess…it was dubious at best as to the levels of consent. And we are in a relationship-"

"Are we?" Sherlock asked in a surprised voice.

"We had a fight," John muttered. "Don't be a complete dick about it."

There was a flicker of a smile. "I still want that name."

John shook his head. "I chose to not say no-"

Sherlock made an annoyed noise.

"-and they shouldn't have done it, but he wasn't there. He didn't go. He had no idea what I was walking into-"

"My god, you are not that naïve," Sherlock snapped. "I want that name."

"And I want to look into it before I give it to you."

"Ah, the signs of a loving, trusting relationship."

"Coming from the man who can't tell me that he loves me."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and glared at him before opening his mouth.

Sherlock's phone thankfully interrupted whatever it was he was about to say.

* * *

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock ordered as they climbed into the taxi.

John eyed him as they settled into the back. "You sure you want me to come?"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "I can multitask."

"So we're going to continue fighting?"

"Until you give me that name, yes." Sherlock looked out of the window as the taxi crawled through London streets. "You and Andy posted the taxi case on your blog."

In the heat of their fight John had completely forgotten. "Yeah," he said a little suspiciously. "I was going to tell you last night but…" he shrugged. "We were distracted."

"Oh don't worry," Sherlock said in a placid tone. "If we hadn't started fighting about this we would have had a fight over that."

"Why?" John asked, turning to look at him. "You didn't like it?"

"A study in pink?"

The distaste in Sherlock's voice told John all he needed to know. "There was a lot of pink," he muttered.

"And it was wholly necessary to point out my 'ignorance'?" Sherlock snapped, turning to look at him.

John held up a hand. "Can we not have the solar system argument again? This one we're having is bad enough," he complained.

Sherlock sat back in a sulk.

"And you can blame Andy for that," John added as he glared at the plastic separating them from the driver. "He said it would balance you out, make you look more human."

"And you agreed?"

John shrugged. "Wishing I'd agreed more," he muttered. "Could have added a hell of a lot more to it."

"Name me one."

"What's the name of the Queen's husband?"

Sherlock paused.

"That is not a useful piece of knowledge-"

"Prime minister?"

"They keep changing, why bother?" Sherlock huffed, folding his arms.

"No, they change every four years."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Well they all look alike."

John smiled. "And yet most people manage."

* * *

"Do you really not know that the earth goes round the sun?"

John winced at Lestrade's tone.

Sherlock, holding the copy of the phone from the case with the cab driver, spun around while John closed his eyes, pained.

When he opened them, Sherlock was glaring at him. "It isn't the same phone," he said, tearing his eyes away. "This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means that blog you and Andy are inflicting upon us has a far wider readership."

John sighed as Sherlock pressed to listen to the voicemail.

This was going to be a long case.


End file.
